November 6 – Day 61: Home Again, Home Again ...

It was cold, it was rainy, it was too damn early.

I had to wake up anyway, though, since I had so much to do. I hadn’t gotten to sleep much before 5:00, and had originally planned on getting up at 10:00, but just couldn’t do it, so I gave myself an additional 15 minutes. When the alarm went off, though, I thought it was 10:30, so I was granted a few minutes.

After a few moments of checking my phone to see if there were any important emails (there never are), what the weather was, and what stupid shit Trump pulled overnight, I dragged myself out of bed and started the getting-ready process. Fortunately, I didn’t have to shave, so that was going to save me some time. I took my final shower in the fun-house bathtub, and plunged in.

After a quick breakfast, I pulled one of my suitcases out from under the bed and started loading stuff into it. I had six drawers full of clothes, so I started at the top right and worked my way down and over to the left. The case filled pretty quickly, so I went into the back room to get the other one. It was a juggling act, because in addition to the clothes, there were programs from the shows I had seen, books and other things I had bought (including some food), toiletries, and other odds and ends.

I managed to get everything stowed away pretty well—and then noticed that I hadn’t packed the laundry bag with a week’s worth of dirty clothes. When I tried to stuff it into one bag or the other, I saw that it just wasn’t going to happen, and realized I was going to have to go with my backup plan of mailing (or, in this case, FedExing) some stuff, rather than taking it all on the plane.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but given the weather, it meant I was going to have to figure out a way to lug a big box (that I didn’t even have yet) the half-mile to the mailbox place. As I was coming to this realization, there was a knock on the door. It was John, who wanted to thank me for being a good tenant. I asked him whether he wanted me to knock on his door downstairs to give him the keys when I left, but he told me I could just leave them on the kitchen table.

Constant readers will remember that, on Monday, I was torn between sandwich places. Pidge had recommended one (Randall’s BBQ) that she’d seen in New York Magazine, and my nephew-in-law had recommended another. I’d tried to go to the latter place, but by the time I’d gotten there, they’d sold out of bread. My original plan had been to go to Randall’s and get a couple of pastrami sandwiches to eat on the plane and/or bring home. (If only I’d reversed the order, I could have gone to both.) My new and revised plan now included a brief stop at the mailbox place to buy a box, packing tape, and a felt-tip pen to address the box. This plan had the added challenge of dealing with an unconstructed box in the crappy weather.

Walking to the store wasn’t too bad; it was rainy and cold, but I had an umbrella, so I was (relatively) protected. I made it to the store, got stuck behind a customer who had a transaction that was unusually difficult (because I’m always in back of her), bought the box, passed on buying the tape there (it was just too expensive and too big of a roll), and left. Once I crossed the threshold, I discovered what a stiff breeze there actually was and what a fine sail an unfolded cardboard box makes. I continued my walk to the restaurant, being blown all over the place, never really finding a good way to hold a box that was getting increasingly more wet.

Fortunately, Randall’s wasn’t too far (I mean, it was probably an eight-minute walk, but that’s nothing). When I approached it, I realized it was in a building I’d walked by all those weeks ago when I was making my walk to our first rehearsal at the Flea Theatre. The reason the building stuck out to me was that it’s so odd in that neighborhood; basically a one-story California strip mall in the middle of the Lower East Side, surrounded by huge apartment buildings. It really is the proverbial sore thumb. I got closer and was a little surprised to see that there was no one going into or coming out of the place. It may have been a little early for lunch, but it was close enough. As I approached, though, I saw the warning sign of the chairs inside being stacked on the tables, a sure sign of a place that’s closed. I looked at the posted hours on the sign in the door and saw they didn’t open until 3:00. Foiled again.

 It looked just about like that.

There was nothing to do now but find a drugstore so I could buy the tape and pen I still needed. Fortunately, there was a really nice Rite-Aid on the way back, and they had what I needed. I got in line—behind yet another difficult customer—and was finally able to make my purchases and head home. The rain wasn’t too bad, so the box wasn’t getting too wet, and I was okay.

I got inside, taped the box together and tried to figure out what to put in it. The laundry was an obvious choice, but the rest was anyone’s guess. I took what looked like heavy stuff and filled it pretty full, then sealed and addressed it. As I was packing the box, I kept coming across things I’d missed the first time, but after checking the back room, bathroom, under the bed, the kitchen, and the shelves, figured I’d finally gotten everything.

It was only about 12:40, so I seemingly had enough time to walk to the mailbox place and back before my car arrived at 1:30. My new problem was that it was raining a little harder and there was no way to carry an 18-pound box and a raised umbrella, so I was stuck walking to mail the box while getting soaked and receiving puzzled looks from people who were wondering why I wasn’t using the umbrella and why I was carrying a wet box.

I finally arrived, walked in, and while there was no one in line in front of me, the phone rang, and the clerk figured it was far more important to take not just one, but two, phone calls than deal with a customer who’d actually taken the trouble to come to his business. He puzzled his way through the mailing process, giving me various options (I thought about overnighting it, but didn’t really feel like spending 200 bucks to send myself dirty laundry) before settling on a three-day delivery (it’s due here on Friday). I left, finally able to use my umbrella, and went home, realizing I could probably have gotten a better deal at the post office, which was actually closer than where I’d gone.

Every time I’d walked on 7^th that morning, I was met with whatever construction they were doing on the building next door. It looked like they were installing balconies; anyway, they were using a crane to lift giant (and heavy-looking) metal structures, which meant they kept diverting people off of the sidewalks. As I was coming back this time, walking down the middle of the street, I saw that Manish, my driver, had arrived and that he’d texted me that he was waiting outside. I waved to him and as I approached the car, told him I just had to go inside and get the bags.

I went in, got the first (and heavier) bag, and manhandled it outside. Manish took it down the stairs, and I went back in to get the other bag. I gave the place a final once-over, saw that I’d gotten everything, left the keys on the table, turned out the lights, and left. I got to the top of the stairs, Manish took the bag, and I got in the car.

The trip to Newark was uneventful. We chatted a little, but I was mostly on my phone, alternately looking at my email and the route. We arrived at the terminal, Manish unloaded the bags, and I wheeled them in to check them.

I stepped up to a kiosk, started the check-in process, and got to the section that asked if either of my bags weighed more than 50 pounds. I had no idea, so I put them on the scale. One was 57 pounds and the other was 45, so I was going to have to shift some stuff around.

Now, while at least some of the weight thing was due to the heavier suitcase weighing a lot even when empty, I was still going to have to deal with it. I cancelled the check-in, moved away, and shifted some things from one suitcase to the other. I went to another kiosk and weighed them again, and had done a pretty good job, since each now weighed 51 pounds; better, but still over. I opened them again and tried to figure out what I could do, then remembered I’d packed a book about the Marx Brothers that weighs about three pounds. I figured I could carry that in my backpack, so I took it out, moved a couple more things, went back to the scales, and had gotten them both under 50. Since that kiosk was actually out of order, I had to find another one. I weighed the bags (was under!), checked in, and headed to the security line.

 The book in question; it's actually really good.

There were two choices, one long and one short, so I opted for the latter, and saw that that one split into two more lines (again, a longer one and a shorter one). I had the feeling that the long one would go faster, but my unerring instincts led me to choose the shorter one, which (as could be predicted) took more time. This process was not helped by the mysterious third line that suddenly appeared and was used by three business-type guys who had basically cut the line. (I was none too pleased.) I eventually got through the line and made it through security with no problem.

A few weeks ago, I’d gotten an email from United Airlines saying I was invited to try a new airport restaurant called Classified. It was supposedly very hush-hush and open to only a few customers, so I figured what the hell. My original reservation was for 1:30, but I’d changed it to 2:30, which was fortunate, since it was just now 2:30. I wondered whether I should actually go, since it was so close to boarding time (3:10), but figured I could make it.

I hiked the long, long way to where I was supposed to go to check in, gave the password to the host of the other restaurant Classified is part of, and he led me through that restaurant, through a back door, through another door, and there I was. It’s a nice space overlooking the tarmac and quite small, maybe 15 tables. The waiter greeted me by name, poured me some water, and asked if I needed to be walked through the ordering process. Since it uses the same ordering system as a lot of other airports nowadays (iPads on the table to order and pay), I didn’t need training, so he left. I didn’t want to eat a lot, since I knew they were feeding us on the plane, and I didn’t want to order anything that would take time, since it was getting closer to boarding time, so I settled on a steak salad and an iced tea. After a few minutes, he brought the world’s biggest iced tea—it looked like it was about a gallon.

 It really was that big.

I kept looking at my watch, wondering if I should get the food to go, but it ended up coming quickly enough that I realized I could eat it there. I didn’t wolf it down, but ate pretty quickly. It was actually pretty good, and was small enough that I was out just after 3:00. (It helped that I was able to pay on the iPad, so I didn’t have to wait for the check.) I got a to-go cup for the rest of the tea, got briefly lost trying to find the exit, and headed to my gate, which was (of course) in a completely different part of the terminal. I got there about 3:20 and expected to waltz right onto the plane.

I was a little surprised to see a couple of people standing in the first-class line, since they were obviously boarding—to the point where people in economy were having to check their carry-on bags. I got in line, went up to the scanner, and was told that they weren’t seating first class or business because they were waiting on catering. I didn’t see the connection, but took a seat and waited, comparing notes with some other people.

Eventually, they let us on. I found my row, crawled over the guy in the aisle seat, and sat. It was obvious they were still waiting, since the front door on the right was open and maintenance people were coming in and out and carts were going up and down the aisle. They finally got everything loaded and we left the gate only a few minutes late.

We pulled onto the runway and were seemingly ready to go when we pulled over (more or less) and the captain got on the mic and announced that one of the engines had stopped. He didn’t seem at all concerned. The other engine was fine and they were going to be restarting the one that had stopped. The problem was that, since we’d gotten out of line, we were going to have to wait until they could squeeze in our departure, which meant we’d be leaving late, which meant that they were going to have to find a new, faster route, which meant that they had to get approval from Chicago, a lot of which was dependent on whether we had enough fuel for the new route. Again, he didn’t seem concerned—which I realize is a captain’s job—so that spread to the rest of us. We sat there on a virtual side-road in a pleasantly-darkened cabin waiting. We were late, but we were chill.

Finally, after about a half-hour, we started moving. I texted Pidge about the delay, put my phone into airplane mode, and we were soon in the air. The flight itself was mostly uneventful; some turbulence, some surprisingly good food. (Nuts, red wine, a salad, short ribs with mashed potatoes and root vegetables, an ice cream sundae, and—late into the flight—a turkey and cheddar wrap.) I watched a movie (Three Identical Strangers—angering and depressing), read some, slept some, did a couple of crosswords, got up a couple of times, and the flight was over. 

 

 Sunset somewhere over the midwest. I wish my camera were good enough to capture the oranges.

  

United Airlines's idea of "classic" movies. Just no.

We got into SFO at about 8:15 (only about 75 minutes late). Pidge met me at the baggage carousel, my bags came, and we headed home. Even though I’d been gone two months, it felt like I hadn’t been away at all in some ways. We got home, I dragged my suitcases upstairs, and headed for—with one minor exception at 59—my first real shower in two months. It was a dream come true.