Day 1: Thursday, February 16
Well, that was something …
I guess the day really started the night before. I knew I was going to have to get up early (around 5:15 for an 8:30 flight), so I went to bed early (for me): 1:45 or so. Even that would give three and a ½ hours sleep, but it’d be enough for now (and I figured I could sleep on the plane).
Lately, though, I’ve been having trouble getting to sleep—not sleeping; once I am asleep, I sleep fine. It’s just that, no matter how tired I may be when I hit the hay, I just lay there for 30-45 minutes. Wednesday night/Thursday morning was no exception—and actually even worse than usual. To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t get any sleep at all. Oh, I’m sure I must have dropped off for 15-30 minutes, but otherwise I just tossed and turned. Not an auspicious beginning.
Regardless, I got my … self out of bed, finished packing (boy, did I finish packing … ) and lugged the suitcases to the airport. (Oh, and I should mention at this point that, in spite of having Pidge keep a detailed list of what I was packing, I managed to not remember to pack the keys to the apartment we’re staying in. I did remember—and in plenty of time [Wednesday night]—but it was one of those kick-myself moments.)
Once at the airport, the fun continued. I was lucky enough to have to wrestle not just one, but two, unwieldy and heavy suitcases to the baggage check area. Once I got there, I went up to the counter, weighed each bag, and found out that one of them was over the fifty-pound limit; so much so that, even had I moved contents from that one to the lighter one, it wouldn’t have helped. I waited a moment, and the agent (I won’t call him “the friendly agent,” since he wasn’t. He wasn’t unfriendly; just not friendly) told me I had to start the process at the kiosks “over there” to get baggage tags. So, I wrestled the bags to the kiosk, waited behind one guy who—very carefully—read every word on the screen and then paused to reflect on its deeper meanings and an older couple (older than even I) who were utterly baffled by these newfangled computers.
I mean, c'mon; I'm gonna be here for two months.
When these worthies finished, I was able to approach a kiosk, scan my pre-printed boarding pass, go through the entire process of putting in my luggage information (sometimes confusing the machine, which pinwheeled endlessly between some steps), then enter my credit card to pay for the excess weight—and have it have absolutely no effect. It wouldn’t read the card, it wouldn’t process the card, it wouldn’t move backward, it wouldn’t move forward, it just sat there, mocking me.
Undaunted, I tried to start the process again, only to have the machine pick that moment to reboot, so I was permitted to wait through that process. Whatever it did, though, made it possible for me to go through the whole thing over again, with the difference that, this time, it accepted my card. I went back to the counter, and this time the agent was—well, not happy to help me, but at least willing to.
I then repaired to the TSA line. Last year, Pidge and I enrolled in the TSA-Pre Program, which means that we’re pre-approved to travel through security without being obliged to take off our shoes or take out laptops from their bags. I passed through the first line quickly, loaded my backpack on the conveyer belt, and went into the scanning chamber (or whatever it’s called) and the TSA agent (friendlier than the United guy, but it’s all relative) reminded me that I hadn’t emptied my pockets. I’ve flown dozens of times in the last 15 years—three or four last year alone—and how I forgot that little step is a mystery. (I blame lack of sleep … ) I go back to the conveyor belt, empty my pockets, go through the machine again—and it shows that I have all kinds of hot spots on my person. The TSA guy gets one of those “Oh, not this again” looks on his face, and informs me that he’s going to have to search me. Suffice it to say that when I had my colonoscopy last year, it was only slightly less intrusive.
Since I wasn’t packing heat, I passed muster, retrieved my personal effects (including my wallet, which had fallen out of the basket), and proceeded to the gate, where, despite the signs and it being nearly an hour before boarding, people were already lined up. I guess they wanted to be sure they’d have space for their carry-ons. Since I had no carry-ons (other than my backpack which would fit under the seat in front of me), I sat in as comfy a chair as SFO has to offer and passed the time. Finally, as it must to all things, time came for actual boarding, so I got in line, made it to the plane, and found a woman in my seat.
“What ho!,” I thought. I got her attention, and told her politely she was sitting in my seat. The couple had bafflingly mistaken row 22 for row 21. They didn’t put up a fuss, though, and were about to move when the woman suggested that I (and the guy in the middle seat, who had just arrived) we take their seats. Since there was actually no seat in front of what would turn out to be mine (there’s an odd two-seat row in front of a three-seater), it would afford me a lot of legroom, so I agreed. Our seat mate at the window seat was what I like to call “an odd duck” and had a distressing compulsion to pick his nose while monitoring his iPhone, checking his iPad, then frantically pushing buttons on the plane’s screen in front of him. He did this about ten times in a row. I just assumed it was some kind of OCD and left it for what it was. (There was something about that row; the guy next to me kept his phone on the entire flight—even getting a call while we were taxiing.) The window guy must have been a lawyer, judging by the call he made the minute we hit the ground in Newark. He sounded fine, but I wouldn’t want to be one of his clients.
The plane ended up taking off very late—like 20 minutes (one guy even got on just ten minutes before our scheduled departure—but we finally got airborne and on our way. I passed the time reading and dozing, and we finally arrived in Newark about 15 minutes late. Getting off the plane, I already had a text from the driver (there was no way I was going to wrestle those suitcases on the subway) that he was there and waiting, and once my bags arrived (relatively quickly), he picked me up and we proceeded into town. The driver, Garo, was exactly what one wants in a New York driver; a native, garrulous when necessary and quiet when not, colorful, and funny.
The trip into town wasn’t bad (especially for rush hour), even though it was long (nearly an hour), but we arrived at the apartment in one piece. I was hoping he’d help me up the stairs with the bags, but the street was too narrow for him to double-park long-term, so I lugged them from the street to the terrace level. Once there, I found the front door and met the next-door neighbor, who is sort of the super. I tried and tried to open the lock on the door, but to no effect. The key went around and things were clicking, but the door wouldn’t open. I asked the super for help, and between the two of us, we got it open. (It was something to do with the weatherstripping.) I hefted the bags up a flight to the main level of the apartment, then up another flight to the bedroom, and more or less collapsed.
Time was of the essence, though! I had delayed picking a show to see Thursday in case the plane was late, but while I was waiting for the at the baggage carousel, I realized I’d have time, so I bought a ticket for Joshua Harmon’s Significant Other, which, based on the reviews and my enjoyment of his play Bad Jews, sounded like a winner. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. It’s pretty much one-note, with a main character who is whiny and neither changes during the course of the play nor has an epiphany as to why he behaves as he does. Harmon even misses an opportunity for that when, late in the play, he excoriates a friend for all his own misfortunes, and, rather than allowing the friend to return the favor and maybe give him some enlightenment, she doesn’t. I will say that, even though I didn’t like the play, most of the audience did. I will further say that, even if I had liked it, the guy in front of me would have ruined it by (and I started timing this when the show was dragging) changing positions in conspicuous way—moving his head one way and then immediately back, shifting his body in the seat, leaning over to get something (candy?) from in front of him scratching, fooling with his coat and scarf, putting his arm on the back of the unoccupied seat next to him—every 15 seconds.
Junior's; better than Significant Other
The show ended, I went to Junior’s next door (I thought it was that rarest of evenings; with no post-theatre crowd, but when I got inside, the foyer was jammed, so I sat at the counter and had a bartender who was very good at subtle up-selling.) A cocktail and a brisket sandwich later (no room for cheesecake), I headed home (missing the E train by ten seconds, which cost me ten minutes), started this, and ran over my lines—which I will do again when I finish this.
All in all, an exhausting day. But worth it.
Tomorrow: A superb show, walking a lot, and the effects of Manhattan sidewalks on washcloths.
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