September 6 - Day 1: Hot Enough to Boil a Monkey’s Bum
Continuing in my attempt to make obscure references, today’s text takes its title from a Monty Python sketch.
I “finally” got to bed a little after 1:00 am Thursday morning. Since my
airline (no free plugs here!) had changed my original flight time from 7:00 am
to 6:00 am, I knew I needed to leave the house about 4:00 am (we’re 25-30
minutes from SFO), which meant getting up at about 3:00, which meant something
less than two hours of sleep for Your Obedient Servant.
My alternate plan involved just staying up, since I’ve been reverting to my night-owl
ways over the past few months, generally getting to bed somewhere between 4:00
and 5:00. I abandoned that idea, figuring I should at least try to get some sleep. I think I actually did, but probably no more than an
hour or so.
3:00 rolled around, but I slept in until 3:05, then got up to shave, shower,
and finish dealing with the last-minute stuff that couldn’t be pre-packed.
After making my usual hasty breakfast of toast and peanut butter, we finally
left about 4:07, but arrived in plenty of time. I’m used to airports being
busier than I expected, but SFO was really hopping at 4:30. I expect it was a
lot of people flying back east and trying to beat the weekend crowds. Surprise!
Fortunately, since I had “premiere access,” I was able to check my bags
quickly (coming in well under the weight limits, for once) and pass through
security with minimal trouble. We have TSA Check, which means we don’t have to
take our computers out of our carry-ons, and can keep our shoes on. Unfortunately,
I kept setting off the alarm, so I had to let my belt, keys, and phone take a
ride through the Tunnel of X-Rays.
On my own way to the gate, there was a very interesting (to me) historical
exhibit of old radios, ranging from early crystal sets to models from the 50s
and 60s. SFO does this a lot, but the catch is that a person needs to be a
ticketed passenger to see the displays. (Last time it was slot machines.)
4:30 to 5:00 is a weird time at SFO. It’s packed with people, but few of the
businesses are open. I understand the difficulty in staffing, but it’s also
frustrating to have extremely limited options for a cup of tea, something to
eat, or something to read. I stopped at Peet’s to get my tea when I saw the
long line waiting outside the gate, behind which the staff was desperately
preparing to open. In front of me was the usual selection of people getting what
I like to think of as “bullshit” drinks, full of extra this or not so much of
that or a double-shot of the other, all of which add up to stress on the people
waiting behind them and the servers. As I was waiting for my plain-wrap English
breakfast tea, a woman next to me was served a hot-pink concoction of something. She complained that she had
ordered some bizarre variation on iced tea (hibiscus?), and the server assured
her that that was exactly what she had gotten. To me, it seemed that she’d been
served a cup of pink cotton-candyish goo, with approximately a quarter-inch of
pink “tea” at the bottom. The customer seemed mollified, if not wholly
convinced.
From there, there was nothing to be done but get in line and wait to board.
Once the line started moving, it went relatively quickly, although there were
some oddities with at least one woman who was having trouble with her boarding
pass and seemingly in line for the wrong flight. (I have no idea how this ended
up.) I got on the plane and took great satisfaction (as I always do) in making
a left turn rather than a right. (I was in business class.) After waiting for a
flight attendant to master the seemingly-challenging feat of hanging up someone’s
coat, I found my seat, climbed over my seatmate (thanks!), and settled in. My
seatmate was an interesting sort, somehow combining the qualities of having
flown a lot and never having flown at all. He seemed baffled by ordinary
procedures like the seat belt, but apparently knew some of the flight crew from
past trips. After a while, he started violently shaking his hands at the wrist
to the point where I feared he was having some kind of seizure, but he stopped
quickly enough that I guessed it was some sort of technique to keep his blood
flowing. Why he did it while we were still on the tarmac is a mystery for the
ages.
I can’t remember the exact order of the following, but I think it went down
this way. We were still sitting at the gate when there was some sort of noise
and the whole cabin went black. After a moment, lights came on, one by one, and
soon everything was restored except the video monitors. While I feared this
might mean having to deplane and wait for another aircraft, things were
apparently fine. The purser notified the captain about the monitors, someone
rebooted them, and everything was jake. A few moments later, there was an
announcement that they were bringing the jetway back because a passenger had
become ill and was going to deplane. A girl of about 13 then made her way back
from the front of the plane, crying. Whether this was due to her having a
seriously ill companion, her vacation being spoiled, or being completely
unrelated, I have no idea.
The plane ride itself was mostly smooth and (to me) quick. I turned down the
breakfast, having already eaten. The purser soon walked by with freshly-baked
pastries and buns, which looked tempting, but, since I had nixed the meal, he
passed me by, the bastard. Since my seat fully reclined, I ended up turning on
my side and grabbing a couple of hours of sleep. I woke up for a little while,
saw that there wasn’t time to watch any movies, and turned over on my other
side for some more sleep. It was surprisingly comfortable.
Which is more than I can say for what awaited me in Newark. When we hit the
ground, I turned on my phone and checked my weather app. I knew it was going to
be warm, but the reading was 97, with a heat index of 119. Jeezus. Since we’d
made good time in the air, we were about twenty minutes early, which meant we
had to wait for a gate, which was fine with me, since I wasn’t looking forward
to dealing with that heat. Eventually, we got into the gate, and as I stepped
off the plane, I was met with a faceful of the Sahara. I staggered into the
terminal—which seemed as busy as malls used to be at Christmas—and made my way
to baggage claim. They’ve shortened the distance from the gates to the baggage
area at Newark—or at least removed some of the mazes. I read that these mazes
were deliberate in that, the longer it took passengers to get to the baggage
area, the likelier it was that their bags would be there waiting for them,
making them feel happy. In the event, we were directed to Carousel 6, and after
about ten minutes, got an announcement that our bags would actually be at
Carousel 2. Once I found that area, one of my bags was already there, and the
other followed not too long after. (I have no idea if this was intentional
psychology or lousy logistics.) I got a text from my driver that he was there
and waiting. I told him where I was, and he appeared out of nowhere. He took my
bags, we found his car, and off we went on the hazardous journey into
Manhattan.
I was following his route on Waze (which he was using), and was interested
to see how quickly and how often it changed. I know driving in Manhattan is a
pain in the neck, and this was clear evidence. We did drive by the Ghostbusters firehouse (which I’d never
seen in person) and the United States Court House (which I’d seen in pretty
much every episode of Law and Order).
We arrived at my Airbnb surprisingly quickly, but it’s on a one-way street. We
had to stop in the middle of the block so I could get out. A guy in a
construction truck was none too pleased about this turn of events, and honked
and yelled out of his window about “you guys,” which I wasn’t sure if it was a
reference to my driver’s ethnicity or his driving a limo. Regardless, I paid
him, hauled my bags up the short flight of stairs, and tried to figure out what
I was supposed to do next.
John, my “host,” had asked me to give him a heads-up about when we might arrive, since he had someone check out this morning and he wanted to clean up. I texted him a couple of times to no avail. I knew his address was “Apartment 2,” but when I rang the bell for Apartment 2, I was met with ghostly silence. After about ten minutes of not knowing what to do, I contacted Airbnb, who told me how to contact him and, lo and behold!, there he was—downstairs from where I was (and am).
He’s quite a character. He could be anywhere from 70-90, a real New Yorker, and very chatty. He showed me around the place—which was nothing. The room itself is 9 feet by 36. From front to back, there are two windows facing on the street (and which I learned earlier this evening are conducive in allowing me to partake when people are taking a smoke or conversation break from the restaurant next door), the bed (two pillows wide), the TV on the wall (with a very impressive cable lineup—and a DVR), the bathroom to my right (about the size of a largish phone booth), the tub and shower at two o’clock to my right. Across from that, some shelves and drawers. Across from that, the kitchen sink, Across from that, a small portable stove, microwave, hot-plate burners set into a wooden countertop, then windows with an air conditioner and a kitchen table. There are also mysterious panel doors that lead to a small room with a desk and the Wi-Fi setup and a bunk bed. That room is not air conditioned, though, so it’s the approximate temperature of Venus. John told me that he used to live here and had a jerry-rigged staircase, making it a duplex, but was forced to take it out. He seems to be a nice guy; eccentric, sure, but the place is clean, his reviews are good, and I like the neighborhood, so …
After relaxing and recuperating for a couple of hours, I set out to the theatre, deciding to take the subway. Little did I realize that that would mean descending into the bowels of Hell. It must have been 120 down there, with relief coming only when a train pulled in. I took (I think) four trains from different stations, and all of them were the same.
I was going to see The True, a new play by Sharr White that is in previews and features Edie Falco, Michael McKean, Peter Scolari, and John Pankow, among others. I was going to avoid it, but read a promising preview article, so I figured “what the hell.” In the event, my first instinct was probably correct. It’s well-acted and –directed, but it’s not much of a script. It seems to be about the ways in which politics and ideology stress and affect friendships and relationships, but is so tied to the particulars of real people in Albany, NY, in 1977 that I constantly felt like I should have done more homework about who was who and why they were doing these things to one another. (“Who was that guy again?”) As I said, it’s still in previews, and there was a prompter in the audience, who had to cue Pankow twice. Given my own trouble with lines, I don’t fault him, but it was momentarily jarring.
After that, I decided to have supper and walked over to Junior’s, figuring I might as well get that out of the way. I sat at the bar (since getting a table for one after the theatre is impossible), had a cocktail and a brisket sandwich, then left—and was surprised to see that, even though it was prime after-show time, there were empty tables and no line. I blame the heat.
One of the many unique features of my apartment is that there is apparently only one electrical outlet (over there, by the tub), and knowing that all my electronics would never reach from there to here, I wanted to get an extension cord. After trying a Duane Reade and a Walgreens to no avail, I was struck with the idea that, if the Target in Daly City is open until midnight, surely the one in midtown Manhattan would be as well. I made my way to 33rd Street, went in the store, and searched and searched and searched for a good fifteen minutes before finding the one they had. I bought it, got back on the subway, worked my way through the heat, and arrived in the apartment where I sit now, hoping it’ll be cool enough that I can get some sleep. (Current temperature at 4:30: 76 degrees with 88% humidity.) I’ve got very little to do tomorrow, so I can sleep in if necessary.
Until then, I bid you good morning, with wishes that wherever you are is cooler than here.
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