One Week Later
Oct 7, 2001, 11:46 am
#1
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
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.
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).]
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).]
Oct 7, 2001, 11:47 am
#2
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oct 7, 2001, 11:50 am
#3
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oct 7, 2001, 11:51 am
#4
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
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 ...
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 ...
Oct 8, 2001, 4:56 am
#11
Join Date: Jul 2000
Location: Kuala Lumpur
Programs: AA Plat for Life, Starwood Platinum, HH Gold
Posts: 591
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.
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.
Oct 8, 2001, 9:24 am
#12
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
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
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).]
http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/Forum50/HTML/004576.html
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).]
Oct 9, 2001, 6:29 am
#13
Commander Catcop
Join Date: May 1998
Posts: 10,259
One of the best trip reports ever. In the leagues of a LION or a Jailer!
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.)
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.)
Oct 9, 2001, 5:57 pm
#15
Original Poster
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Lake Oswego, OR
Programs: UA 1K 2MM, Marriott Lifetime Platinum, Hilton Diamond
Posts: 3,202
<font face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" size="2">Originally posted by doc:
"continued ..."
MORE, MORE, MORE, PLEASE!
</font>
"continued ..."
MORE, MORE, MORE, PLEASE!
</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.
[This message has been edited by LarryU (edited 10-09-2001).]