Day 14 - 9/28/2012
I wake feeling a bit drunk. I make coffee, go to the store and buy a few replacement groceries, come home and slowly start to clean and pack. It is 9:30. For some reason I look at my flight info and realize I've made a mistake. My plane doesn't leave at 4:30 pm, but in 1 hour! I am already too late. I can't believe it and panic, hurrying with the packing and cleaning. I rush out the door for the subway. All the while my mind is seesawing between panicked planning and gentle reminders to remain calm - it will all work out.
Riding, I watch the landscape segue suburbs, industrial parks, and long plowed fields which line the track to the airport. I find the Aer Lingus check-in counter but no one is there. I call customer service and talk to someone named Darren. He says my only option is to purchase a one-way ticket from Paris to Dublin. It costs 325 euros and I have to collect my luggage and re-check it to New York. I don't think I will have enough time to do that but give him the ok. After he collects my credit card info, he puts me on hold. I wait and wait and we are disconnected. I don't know if the order went through or not. I try to call back but can't get anybody.
Finally someone arrives at the check-in counter. I explain the situation. She tells me there is no ticket for me in the system and directs me to the booking agent. I explain everything to a young, terse woman who scolds me about missing the plane. She too can't find the new order and says I have to buy a whole new ticket to New York for 900 euros. I explain it all again. She leaves to talk to someone. When she comes back, she tells me she is waiting for a return call and would I step aside to let her help some other people. I patiently wait. When another 20 or 30 minutes pass, she finishes with the other customers, acknowledges me, makes another phone call, then tells me she can't get a hold of anybody. However, since I was quoted a price, she askes for authorization to let me on the penultimate seat on the next flight. It is accepted. It will only be 100 euros and my baggage will go through to New York. I thank her profusely, with a tear in my eye, acknowledging how hard her job could be and how much she has helped me.
I check my bags. When I get to security, I am the only person in line. They run my backpack through and ask me about the strange metal objects I'm carrying. I open the bag and show them the fly fishing reels and the Mepps lure. They look it over carefully, letting me keep the fish-hook disgorger but confiscating the Mepps lure in the box. I feel a terrible pang at the loss but am too tired and grateful to argue. I shut up, get processed, and order my last espresso and croissant in France.
Compared to the trip to Dublin, the flight home is luxurious. I sit in the bulkhead seat, forgetting I had selected it originally. I take it as a sign and stretch my legs decadently. I read and watch movies for 7 hours, finishing both the Angler's Handbook and the Amateur Sugar Maker. I watch the flight path on the monitor at the front of the plane with increasing excitement. We fly over Happy Valley-Goose Bay. I smile when we cross into US airspace.
Finally, we make the approach and land. The taxi drags out. We stop. We wait. The captain announces we are being held because of traffic. We wait. Anger builds. You can feel it. We wait, then inch forward. After 30 minutes, the captain tells us that he is going to drive around the airport to approach the gate from the other side. We begin a long taxi. When we arrive at the other side, it is still too busy to enter. We wait. After an hour, we finally dock. With great relief, the anger diffusing through the open door, we disembark. I am first off the plane and walk briskly through the quiet terminal to Customs.
As I enter the Customs room, I see one of the longest lines in my life. Everyone groans. It is yet another hour before we get through. I drag myself to the Airtrain and wait for the A to Manhattan. I watch a lady and her cat on the opposite siding. The cat is leashed, has a sparkling collar, climbs the bench, sits and grooms on the platform. The train is a half-hour late.
I arrive at Fulton street at 11:30 pm. I walk to the World Trade Center. It is a misty night and I see the new tower shrouded in mist. It is a beautiful welcome to the States. When I arrive in Jersey City it is midnight. Quietly I enter my home. On the kitchen table is a plate with a burger and fries from my roommate. The night is perfect!
I am home.
Riding, I watch the landscape segue suburbs, industrial parks, and long plowed fields which line the track to the airport. I find the Aer Lingus check-in counter but no one is there. I call customer service and talk to someone named Darren. He says my only option is to purchase a one-way ticket from Paris to Dublin. It costs 325 euros and I have to collect my luggage and re-check it to New York. I don't think I will have enough time to do that but give him the ok. After he collects my credit card info, he puts me on hold. I wait and wait and we are disconnected. I don't know if the order went through or not. I try to call back but can't get anybody.
Finally someone arrives at the check-in counter. I explain the situation. She tells me there is no ticket for me in the system and directs me to the booking agent. I explain everything to a young, terse woman who scolds me about missing the plane. She too can't find the new order and says I have to buy a whole new ticket to New York for 900 euros. I explain it all again. She leaves to talk to someone. When she comes back, she tells me she is waiting for a return call and would I step aside to let her help some other people. I patiently wait. When another 20 or 30 minutes pass, she finishes with the other customers, acknowledges me, makes another phone call, then tells me she can't get a hold of anybody. However, since I was quoted a price, she askes for authorization to let me on the penultimate seat on the next flight. It is accepted. It will only be 100 euros and my baggage will go through to New York. I thank her profusely, with a tear in my eye, acknowledging how hard her job could be and how much she has helped me.
I check my bags. When I get to security, I am the only person in line. They run my backpack through and ask me about the strange metal objects I'm carrying. I open the bag and show them the fly fishing reels and the Mepps lure. They look it over carefully, letting me keep the fish-hook disgorger but confiscating the Mepps lure in the box. I feel a terrible pang at the loss but am too tired and grateful to argue. I shut up, get processed, and order my last espresso and croissant in France.
Compared to the trip to Dublin, the flight home is luxurious. I sit in the bulkhead seat, forgetting I had selected it originally. I take it as a sign and stretch my legs decadently. I read and watch movies for 7 hours, finishing both the Angler's Handbook and the Amateur Sugar Maker. I watch the flight path on the monitor at the front of the plane with increasing excitement. We fly over Happy Valley-Goose Bay. I smile when we cross into US airspace.
Finally, we make the approach and land. The taxi drags out. We stop. We wait. The captain announces we are being held because of traffic. We wait. Anger builds. You can feel it. We wait, then inch forward. After 30 minutes, the captain tells us that he is going to drive around the airport to approach the gate from the other side. We begin a long taxi. When we arrive at the other side, it is still too busy to enter. We wait. After an hour, we finally dock. With great relief, the anger diffusing through the open door, we disembark. I am first off the plane and walk briskly through the quiet terminal to Customs.
As I enter the Customs room, I see one of the longest lines in my life. Everyone groans. It is yet another hour before we get through. I drag myself to the Airtrain and wait for the A to Manhattan. I watch a lady and her cat on the opposite siding. The cat is leashed, has a sparkling collar, climbs the bench, sits and grooms on the platform. The train is a half-hour late.
I arrive at Fulton street at 11:30 pm. I walk to the World Trade Center. It is a misty night and I see the new tower shrouded in mist. It is a beautiful welcome to the States. When I arrive in Jersey City it is midnight. Quietly I enter my home. On the kitchen table is a plate with a burger and fries from my roommate. The night is perfect!
I am home.
The New World Trade Center Building
