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One Week Later
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. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif 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. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif 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).] |
The Only Living Boy in New York
Tom, get your plane right on time. I know your part'll go fine. Fly down to Mexico-o-o. Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am, The only living boy in New York. I get the news I need on the weather report. Oh, I can gather all the news I need on the weather report. Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile. Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am, The only living boy in New York. Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where, And we don't know where... - Paul Simon Flight 844 boarded just a tad late and I was happy to be greeted by some FAs who recognized me. I settled into seat 2A, retrieved a proper set of noise cancellation headphones and soon settled into a mood of calm meditation as other passengers filed past. Several flights to and from JFK had been canceled by UA so this flight represented the consolidation of what had been three distinct flights. Despite this, the seat next to me was empty and only 18 out of 33 C seats were occupied. Coach on this flight is typically lightly filled, even in the best of times. The passenger load was clearly way down. Employee Class service was the typical slimmed down version of what once was a very elegant service indeed, nearly rivaling what UA once proffered on some of their international routes, at least before these too were appreciably adulterated. But the service as orchestrated by the delightful chief purser, Gaynell Briggs, was wonderful. Her assistant, "whatshername", was a bit more glum but I think that could be forgiven under the circumstances. After consuming my first drink, I could see that meal service was about to begin so I casually mentioned to Gaynell that one drink simply wouldn't cut it. So I suggested she bring me a glass of ice, a can of tonic and some Tanqueray bottles and when they appeared to be empty to please do it again. And she did. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif The menu offered a choice of three main courses, from which I selected the chicken, figuring correctly that it would provide only moderate resistance to the edges of my plastic knife. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that UA had furnished me with not one but two plastic knives! As Gaynell was walking by, I asked her which one was the butter knife. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif American Tune Many's the time I've been mistaken And many times confused Yes, and often felt forsaken And certainly misused Oh, but I'm all right, I'm all right I'm just weary to my bones Still, you don't expect to be Bright and bon vivant So far away from home, so far away from home - Paul Simon I watched “Enemy at the Gates” on my PVP, which proved to be a fairly intense flick about a Russian and German sniper stalking each other during World War II. I frequently find my mind drifting into bouts of abstract symbolism so it was rather difficult to keep my mind from wandering from the ruins, death and carnage depicted in the film to the ruins, death and carnage afflicted upon NYC, Washington DC, rural Pennsylvania and our country’s soul. From an old war to a new one. My wonderful FA, kept my glass of Pinot full throughout the entire flight. And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered I don’t have a friend who feels at ease I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered Or driven to its knees Oh, but its all right, its all right For we did so well so long Still, when I think of the road we’re travelling on I wonder what’s going on, I can’t help it, I wonder what’s going on Shortly after the movie ended, we began our descent to New York. As Gaynell tucked an unopened bottle of Pinot under my arm, I dimmed the lights and stared outside. Besides all of the usual reasons, I was quite thankful that I wasn’t flying into LGA this evening. A very common flight path typically takes planes right along the Hudson, thereby affording passengers with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. I really didn't want to glimpse the scar on lower Manhattan right now. Instead, we approached well south of the city. There was a slight haze in the air but it was clear enough to see the unusual glow towards the tip of the city. I could also distinctly appreciate the outlines of the statue of liberty glowing in the distance. And I dreamed I was dying I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly And looking back down at me Smiled reassuringly And I dreamed I was flying And high up above my eyes could clearly see The Statue of Liberty Sailing away to sea And I dreamed I was flying We touched down gently at 8:00PM and crawled slowly along the tarmac towards terminal 7. Upon disembarking, I gave Gaynell a big hug and invited her to join me and other NYC-based FTers for dinner at Cite the following night. I soon found myself at the threshold of the RCC, where I was greeted warmly by four of the angels on duty. About eight other passengers milled about, presumably awaiting flights to South America. The bar tender handed me a mug of diet Coke, without any prompting on my part. We come on the ship they call the Mayflower We come on the ship that sailed the moon We come in the age's most uncertain hours and sing an American tune Oh, and it's all right, it's all right, it's all right You can't be forever blessed Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day And I'm trying to get some rest That's all I'm trying to get some rest I hung around the RCC a while, dividing my time between the concierges and the bar tender, who informed me that the terminal 6 RCC was now limiting its hours and shutting its doors at 6:00PM. After another 20 minutes, I called my driver and arranged to meet him outside. The pickup area was nearly deserted, although not deserted enough to prevent a rogue driver from trying to scam me by pretending he had been sent to pickup me up. Two minutes later, I clambered aboard the correct vehicle and began my one hour journey to northern Westchester. I had made all of my hotel arrangements two weeks before the tragedy and Starwood hotel rates had been so expensive in NYC that I had planned to hang out in NJ during this visit and commute to work each day. When my client acquired a subsidiary in Morris Plains last year, they arranged for a free shuttle to travel between their two locations four times a day. After the tragedy, I become rather concerned about multi-hour delays crossing the George Washington Bridge, a heavily trafficked route rendered even more so by the closure of the Holland Tunnel. So I amended my itinerary to stay at the New York Hilton on Thursday night and at the Sheraton Russell the following Monday. |
A Heart in New York
New York -- to that tall skyline I come Flyin' in from London to your door New York -- lookin' down on Central Park Where they say you should not wander after dark New York -- like a scene from all those movies But you're real enough to me, for there's a heart A heart that lives in New York - Simon and Garfunkel I had been up fairly late the night before making some additional travel arrangements, so I booked the Morris Plains shuttle to midtown at the fashionably late hour of 10:00AM. An early morning accident on route 80 threatened to turn the road into a parking lot once again but by the time we started our journey East, everything seemed to clear up and traffic was a breeze. I booted up my laptop so I could enjoy some MP3s and watched the somewhat monotonous suburban landscape fly by. As we drew closer, I could occasionally see the New York skyline peek intermittently between the suburban vistas but turned away each time. The wait by the GWB (that's George Washington Bridge, not George W Bush) toll booths was only 10 minutes by the time we got there, not at all bad under the circumstances. Shortly after we passed the Fort Lee Hilton, I noticed a large caravan of immense trucks and cranes, all painted in red, parked silently on a nearby access road. My driver explained that the equipment had been sent over from Ohio, and was heading to lower Manhattan to help with the recovery effort. Some of the vehicles were so large that they needed to wait for traffic to dissipate a bit before they could undertake the bridge crossing. Bookends Time it was, and what a time it was, it was A time of innocence, a time of confidences Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you - Simon and Garfunkel As we sped across the bridge in the left lane, the sky over the city grew dark and ominous. Soon all visible colors were inundated by myriad shades of gray, as if to reflect the moods of the city's inhabitants. As I stared at the somber skyline, my eyes were instantly drawn to the WTC locale, the towers standing out clearly in my imagination, their outlines emphasized even more so by their absence. As I sat and stared transfixed, a truck in an adjoining lane suddenly veered sharply in our direction and began to force us towards the railing that demarcated the center divider. And just as suddenly, it swerved back to where it belonged. But the wounded vista was already gone, replaced instead by the gritty and crater-like pits of the Cross Bronx Expressway, situated on the Eastern terminus of the bridge. As we bumped slowly southward on the crowded FDR, I had an opportunity to take in the character and characters that define my old home. On one side, two men stood about 100 feet apart quietly fishing in the East River. On the other side, several Humvees sat motionless on the side of the road, their drivers gazing casually at the traffic crawling very slowly by. Later on, we came upon a man standing by the threshold of traffic, dangling a banana peel from one hand and from the other, the empty rind of a watermelon impaled on a stick. This was clearly the makings of a deep and profound statement, but try as I might, I could not discern the meaning for myself. We turned off the highway at 49th street and waited by a gridlock-ensconced traffic light as eight folks clad in business attire stood by engaged in heated conversion. At the next light, I watched a SuperShuttle driver unload a woman’s luggage, comprised of two large carryons and three huge stacks of newspapers, each individually bound in rope. “That’s not mine," she exclaimed. “But it was sitting alongside your luggage when I picked you up at Newark,” the driver replied. Something told me that there was going to be a huge shortage of USA Todays at a EWR newsstand that day. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif We reached our destination at about 11:15 and the moment I stepped out of the van, the heavens let lose and I found myself engulfed in a pounding downpour. I was running a few minutes late for my first meeting and figured my clients would now have an even better reason to think I was all wet. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif |
When They Ring Those Golden Bells
There's a land beyond the river That they call the sweet forever And we only reach that shore by faith’s decree One by one we’ll gain the portals There to dwell with the immortals When they ring the golden bells for you and me. - Natalie Merchant Missed connections have taken on an entirely different meaning now. I was about to begin my second meeting of the day, when a colleague turned to me and asked me whether I had heard about Lloyd’s son. “Lloyd? Lloyd Glick?,” I asked. Lloyd and I had been working together on a project in Morris Plains, NJ since 1996. “His son was killed on flight 93." “Jeremy?” I had been aware of all the media reports, the story of the flight 93 heroes, who attempted to retake their hijacked plane from the terrorists on September 11. The plane and its contents were obliterated in rural Pennsylvania but it never reached its intended target. Presumably, countless other lives were saved as a result. Over the years, I had hooked up with Jeremy several times in Hackensack, NJ. One week had elapsed since the tragedy and I never made the connection. My Little Town In My Little Town, I grew up believing God keeps His eye on us all. And he used to lean upon me as I pledged allegiance to the Wall. Lord, I recall, in My Little Town, Comin' home after school, flyin' my bike past the gates of the factories, My mom doin' the laundry, hangin' out shirts in the dirty breeze. And after it rains there's a rainbow and all of the colors are black. It's not that the colors aren't there, it's just imagination they lack. Everything's the same back in My Little Town, My Little Town, My Little Town. Nothin' but the dead and dyin' back in My Little Town. Nothin' but the dead and dyin' back in My Little Town. -- Paul Simon Days after the terrorist attack, I attempted to re-establish contact with friends and colleagues who worked or dwelled in lower Manhattan. My broker was walking through the ground floor of tower one when the first plane hit. He watched as the plane hit the second tower and then ran frantically towards the edge of the Hudson river. After scrambling over a seawall he was ultimately ferried to the secure embraces of New Jersey, where he could safely glance back and watch the horrors continue to unfold. Many of these "refugees" were encamped near Newark for the next day or two. It took him a full two days to get back home to his wife and family on Long Island. A friend was on the 88th floor of the first tower and watched as the plane seemed to be heading straight towards him, so close, he said, that he could see the pilot. He ran down all 88 floors and into the safety of the second tower. Security personnel advised everyone to stay put, where they would most assuredly be safe. He ignored these admonitions and ran outside anyway. And lived. Another client working out of 1 World Financial Center recounted how he ran outside after the first plane struck the tower and watched transfixed as the tragedy unfolded. He suddenly ran for his life as the nearby tower began to disintegrate before his eyes and barely survived the copious deluge of falling debris. He was nearly struck down by several falling bodies. He will never forget this as long as he lives. Thick as Thieves The worst of it has come and gone In the chaos of millennium And the falling out Of the doomsday crowd Their last retreat is moving slow They burn their bridges as they go The heretic is beautified Teach the harlot's child to smile Rocked again by indecision Should we make that small incision Testify, to the bleeding heart inside We cut, we scratched We ran, and we slashed And when he opened up at last Found a cul de sac Deepened black Of smoke and ash Deepened black Smoke and ash - Natalie Merchant After scouring various real estate options, the data entry subcontractor had finally secured alternative office space in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. Two weeks had elapsed since the WTC massacre and authorities had finally permitted them to revisit their former office and vacate their business and personal belongings. A 15 minute subway ride on the 4/5 line to Wall Street deposited us a short distance from the office, located just several blocks from the disaster. The stench of decomposition at Ground Zero was nearly unbearable; bodies and body parts that had not been instantly cremated still lurked under the mountain of rubble. And some areas still seemed to smolder, like grayed charcoal briquettes not quite quenched after the party has long since died. At first, I was somewhat overwhelmed at the sheer height of the debris but in retrospect I should have expected it; the materials that had comprised the twin 110 story towers could not simply disappear into a black hole. I stared for a while as a dusty parade of heavily laden trucks stopped briefly to be hosed off before beginning their trek to the Fresh Kills landfill on Staten Island. Kill actually means "river" in Dutch but it struck me that the Anglicized distortion of its true meaning seemed to make a lot more sense under the circumstances. After observing the somber activity for a short while, I finally turned away and walked inside my client's old building. When I started the journey back to midtown a little while later, I just stared at my feet as I walked to the subway. continued ... |
Powerful trip report. Thank you very much for the time and effort you've expended.
I look forward to the rest. Greg |
Very moving, beautifully written.
Sam |
Great reading, touching stuff, thanks http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/starsmilie.gif
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"continued ..."
You are sooooo crafty! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif Thanks for the effort Larry! It shows! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif Has this book got a release date yet - or are you still negotiating? http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/biggrin.gif Waitin' -Mark |
wow!
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Thank you Larry.
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Larry, if I may follow your style:
I've been walking by the river I've been walking down by the water I've been walking down by the river I've been feeling so sad and blue I've been thinking, I've been thinking, I've been thinking, I've been thinking, I've been thinking, I've been thinking, Ah there's so much suffering, and it's Too much confusion, too much, too much confusion in the world Take me back, take me back, take me back Take me way back, take me way back, take me way back Take me way back, take me way back, take me way back Take me way back, take me way back, ah! Take me way, way, way, way, way, way, way back, huh! Help me un.....help me understand Take me, do you remember the time darlin' When everything made more sense in the world (yeah) Oh I remember, I remember When life made more sense Ah, ah, take me back, take me back, take me back, take me back Take me back, take me back, take me back, take me back Take me back (woah) to when the world made more sense Well there's too much suffering and confusion And I'm walking down by the river Oh, let me understand religion Van Morrison Thank you very much, Larry. |
Isn't it fascinating how powerful and profound lyrics can be, even when written for a different time and place? Of course, in some cases, words can be dangerous when they fall into the wrong hands:
http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/Forum50/HTML/004576.html http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif I guess this explains why the Taliban militia banned all non-religious music when they took over Afghanistan: "When the Taliban religious militia took over in 1995 they did not only ban music but also executed TV sets by hanging them from electric poles in major intersections. They started searching vehicles to confiscate and destroy music cassettes." http://www.freemuse.org/03libra/speeches/fri11maj.html Along with the destruction of ancient Buddhist icons last March, its yet another tragic assault against global culture and civilization. [This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 10-08-2001).] |
One of the best trip reports ever. In the leagues of a LION or a Jailer! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif
ANY trip report here has been great. Larry's pales to mine. Love the music accompanyment. (and the reminder about the value of music and entertainment FREEDOM.) |
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<font face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="2">Originally posted by doc: "continued ..." MORE, MORE, MORE, PLEASE! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif </font> I know I never did get the chance to write the final chapter of Seven Beauties http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/Forum81/HTML/002036.html but I promise that I will finish this saga, although it may require another week or so. I have taken copious notes and already have most of the lyrics selected. But I will offer you one additional tantalizing tidbit. On my return flight from JFK to SFO, I had a vigorous duel with my seat opponent (©2000 Quietlion) using sharp metallic objects. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif [This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 10-09-2001).] |
Thank you Larry.
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As promised, here is the rest of the report.
Born at the Right Time Me and my buddies we are travelling people We like to go down to restaurant row Spend those Euro-dollars All the way from Washington to Tokyo I see them in the airport lounge Upon their mother's breast They follow me with open eyes Their uninvited guest Never been lonely Never been lied to Never had to scuffle in fear Nothing denied to Born at the instant The church bells chime And the whole world whispering Born at the right time - Paul Simon Me and my buddies we are travelling people and we like to go down to Cité. And that's where we found ourselves later that evening, reunited in celebration of life in a time of so much death and loss. It was both energizing and cathartic, rendered even more so by the attendance of Gaynell, the purser from my prior night's flight and now an honorary FlyerTalk member. I have to admit, after attending to a VIP (Very Irritating Passenger) such as myself, I was almost a little surprised that she showed up. But for several hours that night, every one of us could think happy and peaceful thoughts and distract our wounded spirits and consciousness from the recent tragic events, at least for a while. After a wonderful evening of food, wine and friendship, we dispersed into the drizzly midtown evening, a few of us wandering in the direction of the NY Hilton, where I had booked a room that night. Once in the lobby, a security guard politely asked to see my ID and room key before granting me permission to enter the nearly empty 2000 room hotel. As a result of myriad cancellations in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attack, the normally bustling lobby seemed like a ghost town. The hotel's occupancy had dwindled to a mere 20% and the executive lounge was now closed indefinitely: Exec Lounge at the NY Hilton is Closed Quite frankly, I have never really much cared for the staff or rooms in this rather mediocre hotel and the offering of a fairly decent executive lounge was its primary raison d'être. Shortly after I checked out the next morning, I canceled an upcoming reservation for Monday and called Starwood customer service and offered to book a room at the Sheraton Russell as long as they agreed to waive their ludicrous $5.81 per day energy surcharge. At the NY Hilton, I figured, the official attendance on Monday would be 20% minus one. By the time I ventured outside, there wasn't much of a taxi line and I was soon picked up by Mohammed the Tax Driver, who was more than amply protected by a huge American flag emblazoned across his rear window and somewhat smaller ones adorning each side of the cab. Paranoia Blues I fly into JFK My heart goes boom boom I know that customs man He’s going to take me to that little room Oh no no Oh no no There’s only one thing I need to know Whose side are you on Whose side are you on I got the Paranoia Blues Knocking Around in New York City Well they know you for a nickel and they stick you for the extra dime Any way you chose Your bound to lose in New York City Oh I just got out in the nick of time Well I just got out in the nick of time - Paul Simon After a very busy week of work and a very boozy week of play, it was finally time to flee suburban New Jersey and head back to Westchester to rendezvous with my driver. For those of you familiar with the region, I typically drive along route 287 north and then traverse across the beautiful and serene Seven Lakes Drive through Harriman Park towards the Bear Mountain bridge. While en route, I could see that some of the leaves were just beginning to reveal a tinge of their other underlying pigmentation. As is customary, I was alone in the park, my drive witnessed only by a small flock of wild turkeys, a few white tailed deer, and I presume millions of black-legged ticks and their spirochete symbionts. I have navigated this pastoral conduit every few weeks for the past seven years and it usually takes about 70 minutes to cover the 60 miles from Parsippany to Croton-on-Hudson. As in most of my earlier drives, I was making some very good time but this time I ran into problems when I crossed the Hudson river and arrived in the vicinity of Peekskill. Route 9 southbound was completely blocked by police and all traffic had been funneled into a small side road, seriously ill-equipped for the mass of cars and trucks that quickly began to create a mile long backlog. After an additional half an hour of uncertain negotiation along unfamiliar back roads, I finally completed what would ordinarily have been a mere five minute journey. I reached my destination at about 10:15, a bit tight for my planned 10:30 pickup. But my driver was also somewhat delayed and I soon grew a little antsy when he failed to show up on time. When he finally pulled up at about 10:50, he explained that he had also been stuck in traffic on northbound route 9A. As we drove south, I could now see the opposing traffic backed up for miles as we sped past. Near Pleasantville, I watched as the police were pulling trucks off the road for closer inspection. Boy, I am certainly glad cars cannot have bombs. As I thought back about the impediments of Peekskill, I finally figured out the cause. These detours were triggered by fear of an attack on Indian Point, the nuclear power facility that had been erected in northwestern Westchester many years ago when I was growing up. They say nobody's ever beaten the Van Wyck - Elaine Benis We encountered two other monumental roadblocks along our journey to JFK. One was a multi-mile backlog comprised of northbound traffic approaching the Whitestone Bridge. It occurred to me that the Long Island Expressway's reputation as the "world's longest parking lot" was now in serious jeopardy. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/frown.gif We were actually doing relatively well until, of course, we reached the Van Wyck. Even during the best of times, this sluggish little excuse for a highway has proven to be a nearly insurmountable challenge and today was no different. But at least it was not in the worst shape ever; that record is still held by a trip six months ago in which it took us nearly an hour to crawl along the five mile approach to JFK. I figure all our government needs to do is to trick all the terrorists into using the Van Wyck; they would probably be trapped there forever. And perhaps they could do something about the AirTrain boondoggle too. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif We were confronted by a final roadblock at the threshold to JFK but inbound traffic was relatively light at that time of day. In addition, the detoured trucks were all directed off to the side towards the nearby Ramada so they were not much of an impediment to traffic. Before arriving at terminal 7, I asked my driver how much his business has been affected by the recent tragic events. He told me that I was his first customer in two weeks! How very sad, I thought; when do the little guys get their bailout? The last time I flew out of terminal 7, I waited in line for over fifteen minutes at an empty check-in counter staffed by a solitary agent, who yacked on the phone the whole time and refused to make eye contact with me. I eventually became so perturbed that I finally shouted out "Is everyone at this airline on strike?", much to the amusement of the nearby BA personnel. After another ten minutes of customer disservice, I was ultimately permitted to check in. This time, things were different. I was still the only passenger in attendance but now all check-in stations were fully staffed and I had some difficulty choosing amongst such a huge plethora of check-in options. Today's check-in agent was very pleasant to deal with and it turned out she even knew Gaynell, seemingly everyone at UA does. I told her that I was astonished to see so many people on duty today, especially in light of my experiences at this terminal several weeks ago. I was also quite surprised to see that my flight to SFO was scheduled to depart from terminal 7 because all SFO-bound flights typically depart from terminal 6. She explained that UA was in the process of abandoning terminal 6 and all of the agents had been consolidated here that very morning. UA Pulling Out of JFK Terminal 6 As UA continues its seemingly inexorable slide into a pale shadow of its former self, this certainly seems like a wise and logical move but I was still a bit stunned nevertheless. I quickly realized that things had come full circle. I remember flying out of JFK on the very day UA first opened terminal 6 and now I was flying out on the very day it was being vacated. I fondly recall the lavish festivities organized to commemorate the momentous occasion several years ago. The area by gates 1-3 were filled with throngs of happy customers and the party was serviced by wait staff plying all in attendance with copious amounts of food and drink. It was quite a classy affair, hosted by a once classy airline. United was rising and the skies were still friendly. There hasn’t been much cause for celebration lately and it was especially so today. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/frown.gif I passed through a nearly empty security checkpoint, casually observed by bored-looking college kids outfitted in camouflage paraphernalia, calmly toting unloaded M16s. Boy did I feel safe. The entrance to the RCC was a hectic scene of bustle and commotion. The area by the front desk was filled with throngs of people but none of them were customers. Four concierges sat in attendance but there was nobody to check in. Two employees worked quietly on some of the terminals installing new software. A few of the formerly carnation-adorned first class concierges were today dressed in jeans, scurrying around stacking boxes of junk recently evacuated from terminal 6. Several management types were huddled together, presumably to decide for whom the axe tolls. There was a bit too much hubbub in my club so I slipped into a vacant conference room where I could seek the sound of silence and await my flight in peace and solitude. [This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 11-02-2001).] |
Have a Good Time
Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland But I think it’s all overdone Exaggerating this exaggerating that They don’t have no fun I don’t believe what I read in the papers They’re just out to capture my dime I ain’t worrying And I ain’t scurrying I’m having a good time CHORUS: Have a good time Maybe I’m laughing my way to disaster Maybe my race has been run Maybe I’m blind To the fate of mankind But what can be done? So God bless the goods we was given And God bless the U. S. of A. And God bless the standard of livin’ Let’s keep it that way And we’ll all have a good time - Paul Simon By about 1:45, I finished up my third G&T, which I had mixed myself in a nice tall beer glass. For some reason, I was feeling very relaxed at this point. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif As I exited the club, I gave my favorite UA concierge ever, Barbara Turner, a very warm hug and steered myself in the direction of my departure gate, where flight 7 to SFO beckoned. I was soon settled into seat 2F and began chatting with my seat mate, a somewhat older nonrev FA in uniform. Throughout the bulk of the flight, she spent about half of her time chatting with me and intensely scrutinizing stacks of printouts detailing her upcoming flight options so she could best strategize her bidding. As is my habit, I stuck in my two cents as much as I could until she finally fled to the galley to consort with her compatriots. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif I learned later that there were a total of eight nonrevs inhabiting the 10 seats in employee class, pretty much par for the course on this slimmed down version of what was once a very fine service, that I now refer to Premium Transcon Lite ®. I thought to myself that if UA continues to degrade service in the front cabin, perhaps the nonrevs would no longer wish to sit there. I sipped several more G&Ts, whilst otherwise engaged in pleasant conversation during the first hour of the flight. My FA seat mate consumed no ethanol at all, explaining that nonrevs are not permitted to consume alcohol while in working attire. Having already been fairly well lubricated before boarding the plane, I soon perceived an irresistible urge to undertake what would constitute my third visit to the lavatory. I guess I must have read one too many news stories about innocent passengers subjected to overly suspicious glances from fellow passengers when they undertook journeys to the lav that proved to be somewhat excessive for someone else’s tastes. “This fellow has to expurgate much more frequently than I do therefore he must be up to no good,” must be the basis of this line of illogical reasoning. I even remember reading of an incident in which a passenger was actually removed from a plane for further interrogation evidently because his bulging and burdensome bladder had unwittingly piqued another passengers suspicions. Not wishing to be embarrassed (at least any more than usual) by such an unfortunate incident, I figured I had best warn my fellow passengers in the F cabin about what I had in mind. Better to be forewarned than foolhardy, I figured. So I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up very slowly, carefully concentrating on making no sudden moves. And then I delivered my carefully thought out announcement to the entire cabin: “Hi everybody, I am about to go to the bathroom and yes, I know that is my third such visit within the last hour. But I had several drinks in the RCC before I got on the plane and I really have to go. I sincerely promise all of you that I am not doing anything suspicious and I can assure everybody here that I am mostly harmless unless, of course, the plane hits turbulence while I am inside.” There was a few nervous titters and then my seat mate burst out in laughter and was soon joined in by the others. Having thus secured safe passage for my journey up front, I proceeded to go about my business with a clear conscious and, ultimately, a very clear bladder. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif I don’t recall very much about the meal service itself but I do remember being quite impressed by the fact the UA had very generously furnished me with a total of three plastic knives, one more even than my inbound flight into New York the prior week. This way, I figured, if I broke two of them I would still have a spare. My seat mate and I began to playfully duel with our knives but the grip and weight in our hands didn’t feel quite right for either of us. After each of us managed to lose a knife, we soon escalated to good old fashioned metal forks. I very quickly earned the upper hand and my seat mate ultimately conceded defeat and slipped up front to secure my prize. She returned about five minutes later with a very special desert, which she and the other FAs had lovingly crafted especially for me. The plate was adorned with two first class deserts (ice cream), one business class desert (cheese cake) and assorted cookies, carefully arranged on the plate to form a happy, smiley goofy face. I was quite touched at the effort, the result of which was clearly a warm and friendly portrayal of yours truly, constructed entirely of sweets. I never before realized I bore such a resemblance to Shrek. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif After successfully achieving an on time arrival in SFO, I explained to my seat mate how this flight has been traditionally docking at a gate deep within the international terminal over the last few months. This disturbed me at first, but I had grown accustomed and somewhat dependent on the idea, especially so because the munchies always seemed better in that RCC. This is why, of course, UA had to prove me wrong and pull up to the nether regions of terminal 8. Just to teach them a lesson, I decided to dump off my gear in the transcon lounge and traipse over to the international RCC anyway. There were very few passengers gathered by the terminal 9 security checkpoint and as I handed the attendant my ID and boarding pass, I briefly wondered whether he would object to the fact that I was seeking egress to the international terminal by presenting a boarding pass listing a sh*ttle flight to LAS. But he didn’t notice or didn’t care and in I went. As it turns out, the munchies presented by the RCC were no better than the offerings available in the domestic version of the club. Secretly pining for sandwiches but finding only healthy fare such as celery and carrot sticks, I opted to beat a hasty retreat back to the domestic terminal. One unanticipated problem was that the my traditional reentry point was closed, attended only by a very bored looking guardian, who sleepily pointed me further down the terminal when I asked where I could once again regain admittance. By the time I got back to the transcon lounge, I only had just enough time to retrieve my carryons and run back to gate 72, at which boarding had already commenced. Being a person of somewhat dubious sanity, I was once again flying to LAS rather than home to Portland, which is where I would much rather be. I don’t gamble, gag at cigarette smoke and I am hypersensitive to noise, yup Las Vegas is the place for me! In reality, what draws me to undertake all of these extraneous pilgrimages to LAS is my ability to obtain full fare employee class transcon seats for half price from that point of origin. Half Price Premium Transcon fare in F It also provides me with additional opportunities to visit the LAS Hilton and make sure that they are toeing the line. So, later that evening, having finally been delivered to the LAS Hilton via a shared ride for $3.50. I foolishly made yet another fruitless attempt to obtain a nonsmoking room as per the specifics of my reservation. And as is my custom, I was once again unsuccessful. The desk clerk very carefully explained to me that none of the “lanai suites” are smoking rooms. However, guests can smoke there if they want to. How can I argue with logic like this? Boy, if this hotel wasn’t so inexpensive ... I was booked on an early afternoon flight the next day, which gave me a little time to sleep in and obtain my free morning meal at the buffet. As many you know, I don’t much fancy breakfast but I do enjoy lunch so the plan was for me to arrive there late enough for the breakfast service to be waning and for lunch food to materialize. Indeed, that is exactly what happened 10 minutes after I sat down. “Real food, at last”, another fellow joyously exclaimed to his wife at the next table. My flight from LAS to LAX landed on time so I spent an hour or so working in the 1K room before stopping in the RCC for a soft drink. After downing a diet coke served to me in a plastic cup by an expressionless bartender, I decided to trundle over to the sh*ttle zone over in terminal 8. As I rounded the corner, an electric cart stopped by to offer me a lift and who am I to turn down such a generous offer? My seat mate was an elderly woman who was in the process of querying the driver about the location of her gate and the likelihood that this really will be the gate for her upcoming flight, three hours hence. Hearing about the poor unfortunate woman’s plight, I volunteered to have the driver turn around and deposit the woman safely within the RCC as my guest. But she refused! Oh well, I tried. The New Colossus Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! - Emma Lazarus My PDX-bound flight was scheduled to depart from gate 80, situated by the threshold of terminal 8, the very same one that I had vacated two hours ago. The area by the gate was literally packed with waiting passengers, thanks mostly to the fact that this flight represents the consolidation of several extinct flights, many of which have been canceled as part of UAs dramatic system wide retrenchment. Just as boarding was about to commence, I observed two Islamic-looking fellows quietly waiting in the queue. I also noticed several passengers staring at them intensely; one of them looked like he were about to have a stroke. The Horror! The Horror! Colonel Walter E. Kurtz in "The Heart of Darkness" - Joseph Conrad I paid the imaginary terrorists no further attention, boarded the plane as directed, settled into seat 2D and proceeded to mind my own business. After a more or less on time departure, I looked up when the seat belt chimed in as we attained cruising altitude. To my shock and utter horror, I was dismayed to witness one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. The man in 2B had taken of his shoes and socks and was proceeding to walk into the lavatory without any protection for his feet! The New Colossus (size 12, triple D) Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled toenails yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shoes. Send these, the sockless, temper-lost to me, I lift my leg beside the lavatory door! - Emma Lazarus and LarryU Can you imagine exposing your skin and pores to the nasty liquids and exudates that typically permeate the floor of an airplane lav? In these troubled times, I am not terribly frightened at the prospect of people boarding planes with dangerous nail clippers and lethal underwire bras but the thought of sharing a sh*ttle cabin with a man in such a dubious mental state profoundly troubled me. Perhaps a test of mental acumen should be added to the ever-growing security check list. I remember reading of other instances in which bare footed passengers have actually imposed their noxious fumes on poor unsuspecting victims sitting one row ahead. This certainly seems like assault to me. I eventually turned my attention back to my work, in my vain attempt to catch up. In fact, I didn’t even consume any Tanqueray during the two hour flight; instead, I slowly sipped the tonic and pocketed the little gin bottles to add to my collection at home. I am in the process of redecorating my Lake Oswego apartment by constructing a little green wall comprised entirely of the diminutive Tanqueray bottles. I have currently amassed about 500 such bottles and hope to have it completed sometime next spring. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/wink.gif Pilgrim Pilgrim, how you journey On the road you chose To find out why the winds die And where the stories go. All days come from one day That must you must know, You cannot change what's over But only where you go. One way leads to diamond, One way leads to gold, Another leads you only To everything you're told. In your heart you wonder Which of these is true; The road that leads to nowhere, the road that leads to you. Will you find the answer in all you say and do? Will you find the answer In you? Each heart is a pilgrim, Each one wants to know The reason why the winds die And where the stories go. Pilgrim, in your journey You may travel far, For pilgrim it's a long way To find out who you are... Pilgrim, it's a long way To find out who you are... Pilgrim, it's a long way To find out who you are - Enya By about 6:30PM, we pulled into gate E2 at PDX about 15 minutes early, so I was able to make a brief pit stop at the RCC, which generally shuts its doors promptly at 7:00PM. By 6:45 I was on my way out past security, looking forward to a much needed travelling hiatus that I had planned for October (little did I know at the time that it wouldn't quite work out that way). As I walked past the checkpoint, I quickly surveyed the multiracial and multi-cultural melting pot of my little Pacific Northwest town. Folks of many nations arriving and departing, some going about their lives, others seeking new ones. My country and my community have evolved into such a unique schizophrenic paradox, both deplored and coveted at the same time. As I approached the escalator for my descent to ground level, I noticed a large assemblage of newly arrived Russian immigrants destined to add to the 50,000 already purported to dwell amongst Portland’s growing population. My country’s latest huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Ironically, I thought, my grandparents had originated from some of the very same regions 90 years ago. I am a second generation descendant of eastern European immigrants. Born at the right time, indeed. [This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 11-05-2001).] |
LarryU, this is a great trip report! As a native New Yorker, I was definitely moved by the quotes throughout the recounting of your trip.
BTW - I couldn't help laughing trying to imagine your speech to the entire cabin on the JFK-LAX leg...and your "duel" with your seatmate must have been a truly interesting contest |
"I never before realized I bore such a resemblance to Shrek."
http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/biggrin.gif Just in time, and surely well worth waiting for! Thanks for the great report, Larry! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif |
AWESOME REPORT! A Pulitzer awaits you. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif
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I laughed. I cried. I fell down. It changed my life. It was good.
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Ya know, you think you can write a decent trip report... and then... well it's kinda like something I read in a book called "Snow Crash" by Neal Stephenson. To paraphrase : at some point in your life, you think you could possibly be the baddest mofo on earth. Then someone comes along and does something that shows you the light and you know there's just NO way you'll get there. http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/biggrin.gif Seriously, great trip report, thank you!
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Better than late buddy! What a fine postscript to remind us all how 9-11 affected us all.
Nice collection of music. When is the CD coming out! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif Eight Paws up! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif (One of the few trip reports I think I have EIGHT PAWS UP WAS PREMEX'S TIME IN WENGEN. And I think one or two of Mr. Lion's! http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/smile.gif ) |
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