Does it count as sufficiently low when you oversleep a meeting with an assistant vice president? Thought so. Mental note for next career: no eight o' clock appointments.
I'm on a bit of a slide in diet, downing more sodas and chocolate than I have in many weeks. Also, I've been showing less commitment to the notebook that's helped organize me so well this year. It's going to be helpful to get back on track in all respects, because carelessness at the root can kill the productive tree after a while.
It was a good week overall. There were at least two times where I was able to provide career counseling for people. It was heartening to hear one of them describe me as a good listener, since the struggle against selfishness is one of my toughest. Better yet, the compliment came from a person who is actually my own role model for being genuinely interested in other people.
Missed meeting aside, it was a busy but effective week at the office. All hands were on deck for the last stages of launching a new product for customers. While Jennifer was captaining admirably, Rob and Betty were off making major contributions to separate projects of their own.
We were able to get out on a date with long-time pals the Hosses in the quiet confines of Marriott Hotel's Jesse's Grille. It turned into one of those dinners where the meal lasts an hour but the conversation flows bountifully for three without even realizing it. In my book those kinds of friends are golden.
Capping off the week with a date to see the Red movie was our first since I got back from New York.
Basketball is just over a week away, and I just got signed up for a soccer team to help stay in shape. Plus, I sent the last of my treasurer's reports to the condo board this week, officially beginning my freedom in that respect.
The fantasy football team's been on a short winning streak, and my fantasy basketball team was successfully drafted and is off to a solid third-place start.
We're less than ten weeks from 2011, and a couple of the 2010 new year's resolutions are still dangling. Let's see what kind of progress can be made this week!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Red
We picked this movie from a choice of Secretariat, Saw 3D, and Hereafter. Good call!
Bruce Willis plays a retired CIA agent mysteriously under attack. By his own CIA. Why? It's not clear until right near the end. Meanwhile, the "old man still got it" routine is played light-heartedly from start to finish. Willis' character squares off against a young talented CIA agent contracted to kill him as part of an "off the books" project. Willis reaches out to the Russian embassy for help, reconnecting with a Cold War era nemesis-turned-friend. 80-year-old Morgan Freeman's character unfortunately doesn't survive the movie, but does play an endearing part and makes a significant contribution. Add the wacky paranoid rantings of veteran John Malkovich, plus an old flame with a penchant for king-size guns, and an unusual role for Richard Dreyfus. It mixes nicely into an "action comedy," eliciting a good chuckle every five minutes or so, providing a couple of genuine stomach-tensing moments, and ultimately flowering new romance for several main characters. So perhaps "action romantic comedy" is the right term!
Bruce Willis plays a retired CIA agent mysteriously under attack. By his own CIA. Why? It's not clear until right near the end. Meanwhile, the "old man still got it" routine is played light-heartedly from start to finish. Willis' character squares off against a young talented CIA agent contracted to kill him as part of an "off the books" project. Willis reaches out to the Russian embassy for help, reconnecting with a Cold War era nemesis-turned-friend. 80-year-old Morgan Freeman's character unfortunately doesn't survive the movie, but does play an endearing part and makes a significant contribution. Add the wacky paranoid rantings of veteran John Malkovich, plus an old flame with a penchant for king-size guns, and an unusual role for Richard Dreyfus. It mixes nicely into an "action comedy," eliciting a good chuckle every five minutes or so, providing a couple of genuine stomach-tensing moments, and ultimately flowering new romance for several main characters. So perhaps "action romantic comedy" is the right term!
Shop Talk
Being ahead of the game is a great feeling. So why not ponder the Christmas list a bit?
First, the old standbys: Gift certificates to Kohl's or Avanti's. Subscription to Sports Illustrated or Investor's Business Daily.
Any book (250 pages or less) on: The Beatles, Abraham Lincoln, or the Chicago Cubs.
Three-ring binders, about two inches thick for holding regular 8 1/2 by 11 inch sheets of paper. Pilot Precise Gel 07 black ink pens.
New Balance black running shoes, model 473, size 10.5. Over-the-calf black soccer socks.
Eventually I'll have to divvy this up into a Freidinger family list, a McDonald family list, and a Dena list. This list will grow!
First, the old standbys: Gift certificates to Kohl's or Avanti's. Subscription to Sports Illustrated or Investor's Business Daily.
Any book (250 pages or less) on: The Beatles, Abraham Lincoln, or the Chicago Cubs.
Three-ring binders, about two inches thick for holding regular 8 1/2 by 11 inch sheets of paper. Pilot Precise Gel 07 black ink pens.
New Balance black running shoes, model 473, size 10.5. Over-the-calf black soccer socks.
Eventually I'll have to divvy this up into a Freidinger family list, a McDonald family list, and a Dena list. This list will grow!
Let's Work
This little known Mick Jagger tune takes me back to my teens. The silly characters throughout, and even a decent message in the lyrics.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
High/Low Week 42, 2010
I stalled this post until I could get the planes & trains saga in print, since it made such a nice, obvious low. The travel lessons are clear. There's no point in being sloppy. On the other hand, I knew that everything would be all right.
I could also have mentioned an elbow injury that happened during a touch football game, the end result of diving for a fumble with arm outstretched just before a grown man landed on it full force. Hyperextension, with a side of crunching. Pretty obvious lesson there. The bright side is that it pumped up the "no pain, no gain" reward of gutting out an upper body workout the next day. The chest press machine broke for the fourth time in a year, so by now the backup routine is down pat for easy transition.
The laptop computer's transformed daily living. The hours I used to spend down in the basement are now spent in leather-seated comfort.
Sorry Jack - glad to see a couple of underdogs make it to the World Series. I'm pulling for the Giants out of National League loyalty, but it's going to be satisfying no matter who comes in first.
The condo board requirements are winding down, with the end of an eight-year run signaling a degree of new beginning. Tryouts for NCHS hoops start November 8 to fill the time with a new adventure.
Despite the travel drama, New York was a fascinating place to be. How lucky to be able to see a different part of the world as part of my job!
I could also have mentioned an elbow injury that happened during a touch football game, the end result of diving for a fumble with arm outstretched just before a grown man landed on it full force. Hyperextension, with a side of crunching. Pretty obvious lesson there. The bright side is that it pumped up the "no pain, no gain" reward of gutting out an upper body workout the next day. The chest press machine broke for the fourth time in a year, so by now the backup routine is down pat for easy transition.
The laptop computer's transformed daily living. The hours I used to spend down in the basement are now spent in leather-seated comfort.
Sorry Jack - glad to see a couple of underdogs make it to the World Series. I'm pulling for the Giants out of National League loyalty, but it's going to be satisfying no matter who comes in first.
The condo board requirements are winding down, with the end of an eight-year run signaling a degree of new beginning. Tryouts for NCHS hoops start November 8 to fill the time with a new adventure.
Despite the travel drama, New York was a fascinating place to be. How lucky to be able to see a different part of the world as part of my job!
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Planes, Trains And Automobiles? If Only! (The Sequel)
(...continued from yesterday's post)
So I'm standing in JFK airport, having just learned that the last flight to O'Hare airport - that is, between two of the largest international airports in the world - was at 3:45 in the afternoon. It's 4:10. The ticket lady explains my options.
"There's one more flight to Chicago at 7:00... out of LaGuardia airport. There's no connecting flight to Bloomington though, so you'd have to wait until morning there. Or, you can wait here overnight and catch a flight out first thing tomorrow."
Never been on a desert island before. But now I get it. And sitting here on the beach won't do. It now appears that my subway experiment to avoid cab fare has ultimately staged me to catch a cab to LaGuardia. Wherever that is.
"How far is LaGuardia?"
"About 20 minutes. There's a bus downstairs that will take you there for $15." (My first good news of the quest!) "Good luck."
4:20. I emerge from the lower level of the airport in the ground transport area and do a good enough job looking like a tourist that an official-looking guy approaches me. "Bus to LaGuardia," I elaborate. He points me to someone walking about who by my reckoning is a member of the Jamaican national basketball team. With a sing-song voice he hands me a ticket, and walks me directly to a spot on the curb where he claims the bus will arrive.
4:21. A bus! My bus? It pulled up about thirty yards past me. Jamaican LeBron is nowhere to be seen. No reason to lose faith in him yet. Probably not my bus.
4:40. I'd been the first at this curb spot. Now there are about twenty. A bus appears with an insignia that matches LeBron's jacket. Fantastic! I hustle out toward the baggage compartment of the bus as the driver emerges and the crowd surges forward. "LaGuardia," I offer. "This bus no LaGuardia" comes the reply. So back to the curb I trudge like a spurned puppy at a pound.
5:00. My ride appears. My stint of nearly three straight hours of standing comes to an end. How do hookers do this nightly in high heels?
5:30. The Freakonomics book does wonders for dissolving the time. It even negates the dramatic exchange between bus driver and passenger who tried to sneak too many kids onto the bus. Getting lost in reading is a pleasant diversion for a body that's consumed nothing but a salty pretzel at noon and little water since.
6:30. Not much time to take in the scenery around me, but despite the fact that exactly one body-scanning machine was operating, I reach the gate with a few minutes to spare before boarding. I'd had the foresight way back at the spa to give Dena a buzz and let her know that I might get home later than the 8:30 plan. I thought I might have enough time to either charge my phone or find a phone to give her an update, but I have just enough time to grab a bite to eat and spill some overpriced bottled water all over my seat before boarding. Another reason it was a good idea not to dash off for a phone is that technically I was on standby, and I needed to be in the area when they called my name. In a sense, then, I was lucky that the munchies won out, otherwise I may have found myself with plenty of time to take in that LaGuardia scenery after all.
7:00. Homeward bound! We make incredibly good time, covering the distance in twenty minutes less than advertised. Still the flight gives me time to ponder next steps once I reach Illinois soil. Nothing is certain, and all have costs. Stay at a hotel for $200 and catch the morning connecting flight. Catch a cab to Mom's house in the 'burbs, and then back in the morning to catch the flight home... $100? Rent a car and drive home. Amtrak? The option I like best is to catch a Peoria Charter bus for about $35, which I once used to get home from O'Hare years ago. That is, assuming it's still running at 8:30.
8:30. Originally, this is when I'd be sinking into the La-Z-Boy in the living room. As it is, I've covered a half-mile through O'Hare to reach the bus station. Thankfully, there is one more bus leaving tonight. At 10:15. Which will put me home at about 1:00 a.m. at the Bone Student Center at Illinois State University. Time to call Dena with the news that I will, after all, make it home tonight. Oh, and that it would be REALLY great if she could play night owl and pick me up at ISU.
9:00. In case you were wondering, yes there are still public pay phones. Probably more than necessary, in fact. Thus it makes sense to charge $1 for a four-minute call. Turns out that I only need 30 seconds anyway, 'cause Dena's not answering her phone. Since it's relatively important for me to confirm with her that she'll be waiting for me at ISU, I leave all the details on her machine and explain that I'll call back in a half hour.
9:15. More tidbits for the traveler: There's a Hilton hotel attached to O'Hare airport. I wander over to see if there might be wi-fi in the lobby so that I can whittle time away on the computer. The bad news is that my laptop's sufficiently low on power so as not to function. The good news is that a nattily-clothed man hands me a free copy of the Onion newspaper and then begins giving me an infomercial about a local soup kitchen before. I'm overcome by the urge to go hang out back in the terminal, and off I go.
9:30. Success! Dena and I make arrangements to meet at ISU. There's a late night snack shop open. And Larry King is on the T.V. in the waiting station. Two out of three ain't bad.
10:15. The bus rolls up, and six of us roll aboard. I expect that I'll nap most of the way home, but I'm unexplainably jacked up. I engross myself in a book on Abraham Lincoln.
11:30. Hey, why aren't we on I-55? We're past Joliet but on some back road. This is the right bus, isn't it? The weary brain eventually deduces that we started far enough east that we can just shoot down Route 47 instead of the old familiar interstate. Still, it's comforting to know that my capacity for confusion is still high. Plus my imagination for scenarios like subduing the driver and hijacking the bus.
12:55. Right on time, except... why are we headed to the north side of town and not toward the university? We're at... the... airport. Turns out that another passenger on board had requested the special accommodation. Meaning that my own special accommodation, who much prefers the term "Dena," has sacrificed a couple decent hours of shuteye for nothing, and in fact will become quite confused shortly when we don't arrive. I'm facing the choice of staying on the bus, arriving safely with it at ISU a bit late, and causing her to drive us back across town to the airport to get the car. Or I can get off, find my car, and race at breakneck speed across town so that Dena's not mystified when the bus arrives without me. Better go conservative and take the first route. What's an extra half hour of sleep lost at this point? Mental note: Bring a tack to sit on at all work meetings tomorrow... er... later today.
1:00. If only my phone was char... HEY! It's got a sliver of a bar of power! Just enough to call Dena and tell her she can head home. Thanks God...
1:05. The long-lost feel of the trusty Saturn. So good to navigate my own transportation, as fast as the cover of night will let me.
1:30. Hugs, kisses, a cliff notes version of the epic tale, and off to bed, leaving unpacked bags to sleep in the kitchen while I snuggle in the place I oughta be.
The final totals: Eleven hours, five of them unplanned. One plane. One train. One automobile. Two buses. One majorly creeped-out 13 year old. One Freakonomics book. One free Onion. $50 savings by taking a subway instead of a cab. $55 in total bus fare for missing my flight.
But I'm telling you, it was a really good massage...
So I'm standing in JFK airport, having just learned that the last flight to O'Hare airport - that is, between two of the largest international airports in the world - was at 3:45 in the afternoon. It's 4:10. The ticket lady explains my options.
"There's one more flight to Chicago at 7:00... out of LaGuardia airport. There's no connecting flight to Bloomington though, so you'd have to wait until morning there. Or, you can wait here overnight and catch a flight out first thing tomorrow."
Never been on a desert island before. But now I get it. And sitting here on the beach won't do. It now appears that my subway experiment to avoid cab fare has ultimately staged me to catch a cab to LaGuardia. Wherever that is.
"How far is LaGuardia?"
"About 20 minutes. There's a bus downstairs that will take you there for $15." (My first good news of the quest!) "Good luck."
4:20. I emerge from the lower level of the airport in the ground transport area and do a good enough job looking like a tourist that an official-looking guy approaches me. "Bus to LaGuardia," I elaborate. He points me to someone walking about who by my reckoning is a member of the Jamaican national basketball team. With a sing-song voice he hands me a ticket, and walks me directly to a spot on the curb where he claims the bus will arrive.
4:21. A bus! My bus? It pulled up about thirty yards past me. Jamaican LeBron is nowhere to be seen. No reason to lose faith in him yet. Probably not my bus.
4:40. I'd been the first at this curb spot. Now there are about twenty. A bus appears with an insignia that matches LeBron's jacket. Fantastic! I hustle out toward the baggage compartment of the bus as the driver emerges and the crowd surges forward. "LaGuardia," I offer. "This bus no LaGuardia" comes the reply. So back to the curb I trudge like a spurned puppy at a pound.
5:00. My ride appears. My stint of nearly three straight hours of standing comes to an end. How do hookers do this nightly in high heels?
5:30. The Freakonomics book does wonders for dissolving the time. It even negates the dramatic exchange between bus driver and passenger who tried to sneak too many kids onto the bus. Getting lost in reading is a pleasant diversion for a body that's consumed nothing but a salty pretzel at noon and little water since.
6:30. Not much time to take in the scenery around me, but despite the fact that exactly one body-scanning machine was operating, I reach the gate with a few minutes to spare before boarding. I'd had the foresight way back at the spa to give Dena a buzz and let her know that I might get home later than the 8:30 plan. I thought I might have enough time to either charge my phone or find a phone to give her an update, but I have just enough time to grab a bite to eat and spill some overpriced bottled water all over my seat before boarding. Another reason it was a good idea not to dash off for a phone is that technically I was on standby, and I needed to be in the area when they called my name. In a sense, then, I was lucky that the munchies won out, otherwise I may have found myself with plenty of time to take in that LaGuardia scenery after all.
7:00. Homeward bound! We make incredibly good time, covering the distance in twenty minutes less than advertised. Still the flight gives me time to ponder next steps once I reach Illinois soil. Nothing is certain, and all have costs. Stay at a hotel for $200 and catch the morning connecting flight. Catch a cab to Mom's house in the 'burbs, and then back in the morning to catch the flight home... $100? Rent a car and drive home. Amtrak? The option I like best is to catch a Peoria Charter bus for about $35, which I once used to get home from O'Hare years ago. That is, assuming it's still running at 8:30.
8:30. Originally, this is when I'd be sinking into the La-Z-Boy in the living room. As it is, I've covered a half-mile through O'Hare to reach the bus station. Thankfully, there is one more bus leaving tonight. At 10:15. Which will put me home at about 1:00 a.m. at the Bone Student Center at Illinois State University. Time to call Dena with the news that I will, after all, make it home tonight. Oh, and that it would be REALLY great if she could play night owl and pick me up at ISU.
9:00. In case you were wondering, yes there are still public pay phones. Probably more than necessary, in fact. Thus it makes sense to charge $1 for a four-minute call. Turns out that I only need 30 seconds anyway, 'cause Dena's not answering her phone. Since it's relatively important for me to confirm with her that she'll be waiting for me at ISU, I leave all the details on her machine and explain that I'll call back in a half hour.
9:15. More tidbits for the traveler: There's a Hilton hotel attached to O'Hare airport. I wander over to see if there might be wi-fi in the lobby so that I can whittle time away on the computer. The bad news is that my laptop's sufficiently low on power so as not to function. The good news is that a nattily-clothed man hands me a free copy of the Onion newspaper and then begins giving me an infomercial about a local soup kitchen before. I'm overcome by the urge to go hang out back in the terminal, and off I go.
9:30. Success! Dena and I make arrangements to meet at ISU. There's a late night snack shop open. And Larry King is on the T.V. in the waiting station. Two out of three ain't bad.
10:15. The bus rolls up, and six of us roll aboard. I expect that I'll nap most of the way home, but I'm unexplainably jacked up. I engross myself in a book on Abraham Lincoln.
11:30. Hey, why aren't we on I-55? We're past Joliet but on some back road. This is the right bus, isn't it? The weary brain eventually deduces that we started far enough east that we can just shoot down Route 47 instead of the old familiar interstate. Still, it's comforting to know that my capacity for confusion is still high. Plus my imagination for scenarios like subduing the driver and hijacking the bus.
12:55. Right on time, except... why are we headed to the north side of town and not toward the university? We're at... the... airport. Turns out that another passenger on board had requested the special accommodation. Meaning that my own special accommodation, who much prefers the term "Dena," has sacrificed a couple decent hours of shuteye for nothing, and in fact will become quite confused shortly when we don't arrive. I'm facing the choice of staying on the bus, arriving safely with it at ISU a bit late, and causing her to drive us back across town to the airport to get the car. Or I can get off, find my car, and race at breakneck speed across town so that Dena's not mystified when the bus arrives without me. Better go conservative and take the first route. What's an extra half hour of sleep lost at this point? Mental note: Bring a tack to sit on at all work meetings tomorrow... er... later today.
1:00. If only my phone was char... HEY! It's got a sliver of a bar of power! Just enough to call Dena and tell her she can head home. Thanks God...
1:05. The long-lost feel of the trusty Saturn. So good to navigate my own transportation, as fast as the cover of night will let me.
1:30. Hugs, kisses, a cliff notes version of the epic tale, and off to bed, leaving unpacked bags to sleep in the kitchen while I snuggle in the place I oughta be.
The final totals: Eleven hours, five of them unplanned. One plane. One train. One automobile. Two buses. One majorly creeped-out 13 year old. One Freakonomics book. One free Onion. $50 savings by taking a subway instead of a cab. $55 in total bus fare for missing my flight.
But I'm telling you, it was a really good massage...
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Planes, Trains And Automobiles? If Only!
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...)
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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