In My life

There are places I'll remember,
all my life though some have changed.
Some forever not for better,
some have gone and some remain.
All these places have their moments,
with lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living,
in my life I've loved them all.

- The Beatles

I was born at a very young age in Manhattan, about a decade before the World Trade Center towers began to sprout from the hard bedrock at the lower tip of the city. During my occasional visits to lower Manhattan, I watched the towers reach for the sky, heavy metal girders draped in dark plastic to protect the workers from the elements. To this day, its a shame that we as a semi-sentient life form have been unable to come up with adequate protection from some of the worst elements of all ... ourselves. What an unfortunate, complicated species we can be.

Two years ago, my older brother died suddenly and unexpectedly, leaving behind his wife, eight year old daughter and two wounded parents. As we grew up, my brother and I never got a long very well but I still grieve very deeply. When I flew to his funeral in Vermont, hundreds of others had turned up to mourn. The cars filled the temple’s parking lot plus those of two neighboring churches. He had touched that many lives.

In a metaphysical sense, the towers and I grew up together too, except as they grew taller, I grew wider. As a person who typically prefers to be lost in my thoughts, seeking quiet and solitude (except when I can irritate FAs), New York and I never got along very well either, which is why I now live in Oregon. But these tall icons also died suddenly and unexpectedly two weeks ago, snuffed out in their prime. Millions are mourning, they had touched so many lives.

One of the databases I support is used to track the results of clinical trials for a large pharmaceutical company based in midtown. Although the data reside safely on a server elsewhere, data entry had been subcontracted to a third party located within two blocks of the WTC. After the destruction of the WTC and the murder of its occupants, this company needed to find new space and get the operation running again. My client had not absolutely insisted that I fly in but it never even occurred to me to postpone the trip. If UA would take me, I would fly. This decision greatly horrified my parents, who have always seemed very leery of all of my flying anyway. But as some of my close friends have reminded me, they had already lost a son, I am all they have left. However, as I told the WSJ recently, I will stop flying at about the same time as I stop entering tall buildings. In reality, none of this is really all that noble. I can be very stubborn and have clearly refined the art of denial to new heights.

I personally feel that most of the new airport security measures are quite ludicrous, especially when one considers that many of the new policies would have accomplished nothing to prevent the tragedy on September 11. Perhaps they are meant to accomplish nothing other than to assuage the fears of a fearful flying public. But no matter, that’s our current reality, such as it is, and all one can do is make the best of it.

On Friday, September 14, I materialized at the Washington Square CTO, situated in a southwestern Portland suburb, which UA had neglected to shut down a few months prior. The counter was manned by a staff of four agents but my pal Eileen was on vacation so was not in attendance. I took a number and waited my turn for about 20 minutes in the moderately crowded waiting room. The atmosphere was quiet, polite and subdued.

When it was my turn at the counter, I chatted with the attendant for a few minutes and then requested receipts and printed itineraries for my next four flights. I was warned that despite assertions to the contrary on UA’s web site, PDX was insisting that all passengers check in before passing through security, i.e. E-Ticket receipts would not constitute an acceptable proof of ticketing.

Not knowing precisely what to expect at the airport on the morning of September 18th, I made it a point to leave my apartment at 8:30 for my 10:54AM flight to LAX. I was picked up promptly in the half-empty Thrifty parking lot and soon found myself standing in front of the UA/Delta entrance into PDX. The lines in front of the UA check-in counter seemed endless, snaking well down the concourse practically to the security check-point itself. Not being particularly fond of queues, I figured I would take my chances and go directly through security. All four lines were open and one other passenger stood before me. I showed my itinerary to the agent and was waived through with no fuss or muss.

Several minutes later, I appeared at the threshold of the RCC and checked in for my flights. Evidently, PDX had just relaxed their check-in policy only moments before. I was told that the lines by the front counter seemed endless because many prospective passengers had not bothered to check whether their respective flights were canceled. This was very hard to understand given the advice and warnings that had nearly saturated the media.

Today, I wasn’t really in the mood to be alone in my usual cozy niche in the club so I hung out at the bar the whole time, chatting with the friendly bartender and noshing on baby bagels. Soon, we were joined by several other fellows, who opted to dine on a hearty breakfast comprised of Kielbasa sandwiches and washed down by beer and bloody Marys.

I departed the club about 25 minutes before the scheduled sh*ttle departure but by the time I arrived at gate E5, boarding was well underway. As I patiently awaited my turn, a woman suddenly leapt up and shouted, “I’m zone 1, I’m zone 1” as she forced herself into the beginning of the line. The passenger she cut off was visibly upset but her burly looking companion leaned over and whispered quietly, “It doesn’t matter, let it go.” Zone 1, twilight zone – it doesn’t matter to me either.

Soon, we were all settled in to enjoy our two hour sh*ttle flight, which was very unremarkable in every sense of the word, including the fact that we were delayed on the ground for a while due to LAX flow control. The flight actually seemed to be fairly full, due no doubt to the myriad cancellations that had recently afflicted UA flights out of PDX.

I had been grounded in the Pacific Northwest for a full three weeks, nearly a record for me, so it was almost comforting to be settling into seat 2D once again and preparing for the mundane routines of flight. I watched passengers wheeling by with rollerboards much too large, bruising the legs and elbows of hapless aisle seat dwellers. There was the standard last minute search for valuable and coveted bin space, the reshuffling of its contents, the glare from me as my I watched my carefully ensconced carryon get moved and shuffled aside, relegated to a position further and further towards the back. I listened to a baby screeching incessantly two rows back but I reminded myself that at least its better than last time when the poor young thing sat right behind me and screamed and kicked throughout the entire flight, so vigorously that I was compelled to ask the FA why there seemed to be so much turbulence today. But over the years, this seat has evolved into my virtual home, and all of these travel routines and experiences have since devolved into a familiar and reassuring ritual.

During the flight, I sipped a few drinks and made a vain stab at catching up on some work. Shortly before descent, I slipped past my neighbor to await my turn in the lavatory queue. When my seat mate later showed up and asked the FA for some paper towels, I immediately handed him some towels from my emergency supply and then suddenly realized I had actually been the source of some spillage. Evidently, my egress from my seat had not exactly been as elegant and graceful as I had hoped.

But he wasn’t angry at me, thus further fostering the spirit of live and let live that I seemed to be witnessing that morning. Soon, the seat belt sign lit but the FA granted me permission to finish what I started, a very nice gesture considering the underlying tension that could be elicited by passengers hanging out near the cockpit..

After we pulled into gate 80, I strode over to the empty 1K room in terminal 7 to work for a while. I sat there quietly for half an hour but was ultimately driven off by a new resident, who was vociferously “holding court” and was experiencing significant difficulty modulating the volume of his vocal chords. Even Winamp at full blast could not drown him out. I then drifted into the RCC, which I shared with a mere dozen other passengers. Finally, I slowly meandered back to gate 80 but wound up hanging out for an additional half hour because a connecting FA had not yet arrived. The short flight to LAS was otherwise unremarkable, save for the fact that several seats were empty in F and coach seemed quite light as well.

Once safely landed, deplaned, trammed and exited, I sought out one of the multiple airport shuttle companies that have taken roost at the McCaren ground transportation level. My flight to SFO the next morning was at 7:55AM and I figured I probably needed to get a very early start. According to a very comprehensive LAS web site, most of these companies start their runs to the airport at 7:30AM or so but C.L.S. was purported to run 24 hours a day. When I called them directly I learned that this wasn't really true, instead they departed every half hour starting at 4:45AM. Nevertheless, this schedule was still more than ample for my needs. I purchased a $7.50 roundtrip fare and 20 minutes later found myself deposited at the doorstep of the LAS Hilton, a property at which I have acquired many fond and fulfilling memories.

I was checked in at the empty VIP queue by a man who had adorned himself with many medals. I mentioned that I would be checking out at 6:15 and asked whether any restaurants would be open for me to obtain my free Hilton Diamond breakfast.

http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/Forum57/HTML/002271.html

He advised me to charge breakfast to my room and that the charges would be removed at checkout. Occupancy at the LAS Hilton was at 50%, thanks to a very large convention that had opted not to cancel.

My room was the traditional third floor lanai suite, the standard accommodations afforded to Diamonds by the LAS Hilton, heavily laden with smoke as usual. With smoke obviously permeating my mind, I promptly called room service and ordered a smoked salmon platter and pot of coffee to be delivered at 5:30AM. The cost was roughly equivalent to what I was paying for the room. I then enjoyed a $13.99 buffet dinner comprised of prime rib and shrimp, accompanied by only three other guests in the restaurant. It was almost spooky. My complimentary breakfast showed up at 5:15AM but I can’t comment on whether the front desk really would have cheerfully removed the breakfast charges from my bill because they never appeared on the bill in the first place.

The shuttle to the airport arrived in the morning as advertised and I found myself back at the UA check-in counter by about 6:35. At least 50 passengers stood on the check-in line but I could find no evidence of an F or 1K check-in area. I made eye contact with an agent who told me that I could check in at the gate, if I wished. There were virtually no other passengers by security, who proceeded to inspect my itinerary, receipt and ID.

I arrived at gate D33 a full hour before my scheduled departure but could not locate a gate agent. I was finally able to check-in when one materialized about 15 minutes later and then sought out one of the very rare electrical outlets into which I could plug in my laptop. About 15 minutes before the scheduled departure, the inbound plane finally pulled in and a gate agent announced that arriving passengers could be greeted by D33, clearly oblivious to the incongruity of his statement.

The flight itself was lightly loaded but F was fully occupied by nonrevs, all but two clad in pilot’s attire. After takeoff, the captain announced that he would prefer that passengers refrain from gathering in the galley whilst awaiting the lavatory. This proved to be a bit tricky given that the 737-300 lacked any means to alert seated passengers when the lavatory was no longer occupied.

We pulled into SFO by gate 68 and I quickly marched to the shiny new RCC in terminal 8. After entering the club, which is located slightly to the right of the old location, I walked down a long hallway to a counter and submitted my ID. The club was very attractive and smelled like a new car. There were abundant quantities of fruit and danishes, as well as self-serve juices and there were even some partially intact newspapers.

I hung around the RCC for a while perusing FT and then relocated to the Transcon lounge. The standard superfluous three concierges were still in attendance but I was surprised to find two other passengers awaiting their flight. This is the first time ever I have had company in this room. At 11:00, I figured I had best head towards gate 82 but stopped on the way to chat with the friendly concierge in the 1K room, who originally hails from Palau. I hope she still has a job the next time I pass through.


[This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 10-07-2001).]