Back to last Wednesday.
Okay, so my flight home from New York's departing JFK airport at 3:45. Conference got done at noon.
I was so ahead of the game the night before. Should I have been surprised on the way in that a cab to Midtown cost $60, or took an hour? That's for the birds. So I scoped out a couple subway stops, stared down the maps for a while. Only $8, seriously? I'll be a corporate superhero of thrift, Indiana Jones of the cornfields adventuring through the tunnels of Manhattan.
1:00. Thought it'd be good prep to get a half-hour massage before my flight to Bloomington by way of Detroit. When I scheduled it from home before the trip, I underestimated the travel time. Considering that it takes me about ten minutes to get to the Bloomington airport from the condo. I figured that it'd be wise to move it up a half hour if possible for some cushion. Nope, but they'd call me if something opened up. Nothing opened up. But I ought to be all right. Out of here in a half an hour would still give me an hour to JFK while allowing an hour prior to departure. The subway ought to be fast enough since there's no traffic. JFK might be a zoo, but worst case scenario would probably put me on the next flight. My connecting flight leaves Detroit at 8:00 EST. Home by 8:30 CST. Enough time to settle in, dabble in unpacking, and wear off the jet lag before work tomorrow.
1:30. Umm... hello? The massage therapist got held up by... slow trains. So I'll hit the streets at 2:00. The (slow-moving?) subway train at 2:15. They start boarding my flight at 3:25. So... an hour and fifteen minutes to get through the Metro, airport check-in, and security. Fortunately the receptionist is chatty to take my mind off the clock. She takes the E train toward the airport every day. What's it take, maybe an hour or so? "On a good day." Alrighty, then.
2:00. Relaxed, mostly. The E train is a nice, straight line to the airport and I can catch it at 53rd street. I'm at 57th street and can save ten minutes of walking by hopping on the A train here and changing at 53rd.
2:10. Didn't realize how fast time moves underground. Ooh, and my first sighting of a subway rat. Nice.
2:15. All aboard. I happen to be at the end of the car. Gotta get off in a stop or two. Which is it? Electric signs are a wonderful modern invention. In Washington D.C. or the Atlanta airport they broadcast the name of the next stop. This one says... that I'm on the A train. Guess I'll just have to listen to the announcement then. Those silvery-tongued voice over artists make all the difference. Shame it wasn't in the budget.
"Glitzzzkerg snemememik farg nift hyberjiflobble inka fiftyhack vrrrtimmy Mikhail."
Uhhh-huh. Off we go.
2:30. After three stops I'm adapting to the Klingon-Wookie language. Enough to confirm that I'm on the A train for the duration. As I recall, it's the nice loopy "scenic" track that swoops waaaay down into Soho before meandering back north. To the airport, at least. Provided that I get off at the right stop.
2:45. Momma didn't raise no dummy. Got a laptop. Pop it open, check the MTA site, scan the map, learn the stops. Hmm. You know, when I get back home I really ought to consider buying a wireless card. And unfortunately MTA's savings on the voice-over talent wasn't funneled into equipping the trains with wi-fi.
2:50. Got a cell phone! Call Jack or Dena. Have 'em consult the MTA site. And... um... battery dead.
2:55. Sitting here is getting awkward. In part because women and children are standing. And it's a 50/50 proposition as to whether I'll be able to identify when Yoda's cousin announces my mysterious stop.
3:00. Ah, better. Grabbing this pole allows me to stand, graciously concede my seat, and practice avoiding eye contact. The lady standing chest-to-chest with me undoubtedly appreciates it. Ditto the Eastside Crip Warriors' summer interns in the middle of the car. Who happen to be standing in front of... a map!
3:05. Making my move. At each stop, a few get off, and I inch toward the blissful view. At last I'm sidled up next to thick, sunglassed veteran with encyclopedic knowledge of the nation's ills. While he shares his brand of apocalyptic wisdom with another fascinated passenger, I take my last slide-step.
3:10. The promised land. A little askew, my back is turned to the map. And so it is that a shy, plump 13-year old boy is sitting innocently next to his grandma and just below a Metro map when a 40ish man with suitcases dressed in black screws his head around and gazes toward him. Stares intently for a few seconds, then whirls back. Turns his way again, furrows his brow, leans toward him. He squeezes grandma's hand tighter as the bespectacled stranger gives one more long, piercing look.
3:15. Grandma's hand regains its circulation. The man darts out of the train shortly after some jibberish squawks through the speakers about "JFK."
3:40. As I enter the airport, I hear the boarding call for my flight. I see a thirty-minute line of people at baggage check-in. Years of math training come in handy in calculating that I am screwed. Fortunately I'd picked up a copy of the book SuperFreakonomics earlier in the trip, and the time passes quickly (as it has been for the last three hours).
4:10. Smiling sheepishly, I approach the American Airlines employee at the counter and inform her that I missed my flight and needed to reschedule. Where were we before computers anyway? In less than thirty seconds she consults the schedule to present me with my options. Leading off with this one:
"That was the last flight to Chicago today."
(To be continued...)
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