Live from New York, It's Sunday Night!

Ruy and I after the first leg of the trip.

In top floor of the international terminal

Place: JFK Airport, New York City

Date: Evening of Sept. 11, 2011

We flew on September 11, 2011 from Portland, Oregon to New York’s JFK airport. Except for the fact that I got nervous whenever the plane changed course and there was a minute of silence at PDX that everyone ignored, it was just like every other day. I scheduled a seven hour layover at JFK, not because I’m a sadist, but because I know how things work. I knew that we would spend hours figuring out where we were, where our stuff was, where we needed to go, and ultimately, how much was it for our luggage!?

JFK is a big place and the first thing we had to learn is about the AirTrain. The train connects you from terminal to terminal. There are something like eight in all and there’s no WAY you’re going to be able to walk, not simply because of the distance, but because of the lack of sidewalks and abundance of homicidal cabbies. The only way to cross the street is to tuck your head in and march. No eye contact. Just walk. Hopefully, they’ll stop. The bus drivers are a little nicer. They stop, and then answer your questions with “Not this bus. Somebody goes where you want but it sure ain’t me.”

Despite New Yorkers’ legendary reputation for being rude, there were a few latent hold-outs who still retained their humanity. The woman at the Delta baggage check, the woman who made sure Laila could ride in the cabin on the second leg of the trip, and a man in the AirTrain who explained the system to an overwhelmed Korean woman come to mind.  The manager at Air Europa definitely does not make the list.

The International terminal is a world apart. I had the feeling I was the only plain white native-born American person in the place. How very un-cosmopolitan. Different nationalities swell and recede like waves in a Duty Free ocean here. At six, it was the Swiss. At seven, it was the Brazilians. Around eight, what seemed like all the Hassidic Jews in the world exited the building in a flurry of black hats and ringlets. Right now, there’s hardly anyone left but the Spanish and the Arabs. The only constants in this flood of people are the I Heart NY shirts on their backs and the massive bags of M&Ms in their hands.

Sitting in the line of Spaniards, I felt even more out of place. It’s true what they say about Europeans and black. But for some reason, they all look so dang good in it. I decided I needed three things to look really Spanish: tighter pants, an army of scarves, and better hair. Seriously, I don’t know how one nation has such unilaterally great hair days.