Of Inuit and Epidurals

We should have guessed. We should have guessed when we got an email saying the room wouldn’t be booked until each of us had provided details of our air tickets into JFK. We should have guessed when the next email arrived saying we had to pay for the full weeks accommodation, in cash only, on the day we arrived. Or when the next email said that we weren’t to tell anyone that we were paying to stay in the apartment, but that we were simply “friends” of Mary K. Renting an apartment in New York is a much cheaper form of accommodation than the hotels. Some apartments are all yours, some are B and B type affairs with friendly hosts and some, like ours, are a place to sleep.

It didn’t really dawn on me what we’d signed up for ten or fifteen minutes into our stay. The first eight minutes after we’d knocked on the door, were spent standing outside the door, while Mary finished her phone call. We then commenced the guided tour, which consisted of a detailed reenactment of how to close doors quietly, how to turn off the heater, which she was sure we wouldn’t need to turn on anyway, and which dim bulb would be left on for us when we came in at night, which we were then to turn off immediately. We progressed through to the kitchen where she showed us how to microwave a cup of tea. Bec hesitantly said perhaps she’d prefer coffee but couldn’t she decide in the morning, rather than twelve hours before. No, said Mary stoutly, she would make the coffee before she went to bed and she didn’t want to be making coffee that went to waste. After showing us where at the table she sat, the head, and where we would sit, (our seats had towel covers over them) she said, Well, I expect you’ll be going out now won’t you? And in spite of the fact that it we’d spent twelve hours in transit, that there was a snowstorm outside and what I really wanted was a nice cup of non-microwaved tea, out we went. Because you don’t come to New York to stay in your hotel room. You come to see the sights,

and the Christmas lights,

and to meet the people.

*This is a “They Might Be Giants” song” which was playing in my head the ENTIRE trip replaced only intermittently in the Subway stations with Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”!

Request denied.
Request denied.
The rejected individual is absorbed by the crowd which surges forward, each person desperate to plead their case. Only a thin cord physically separates the “haves” from the “have nots” but it is easy to imagine the chasm which truly exists. The “haves” saunter down a rich red carpet, behind a closed door and on to destinations exotic and unknown. The “have nots” go nowhere, dejected, afraid to move and burdened with possessions. Most are too exhausted to be noisy, they simply stand and wait, hoping some one will take pity on them. Each has a story which is unique, and yet identical to that of every one else.

My name is called. I can’t help a victorious “Yesss!” escaping from my mouth and I rush to the red carpet. I’ve been accepted! But then… No, No. It can’t be. A large woman in uniform blocks my way. I’m not one of the chosen at all, merely selected for extra questioning. She leans over me, so far into my personal space I have to arch backwards. I’m off balance but I refuse to remove my feet from the red carpet, as if their physical presence will somehow sway her decision. She barks a question at me.

“Do you have a connecting flight?”
“Yes, Yes! I do. I’m going to Vancouver” I say, too quickly, in my nervous excitement.
“Well, the computer says you’ve made the reservation, but we don’t have you on the passenger list. You know, if we put you on this plane, you’ll just get stuck in Chicago if you’re not on the passenger list for Vancouver”.
“But look, I have a boarding pass for Vancouver, with a seat number, look.”
“You’ve got what? Where did you get that? Here, let me take a look at it.”

I hand over my boarding pass from Chicago to Vancouver, seat 15C, as well as my boarding pass from New York to Chicago, no seat allocation, please check at the gate. She examines both as if I am attempting to pass counterfeit money, then takes them to the desk to discuss with someone else. I wait, in no man’s land, while the last remaining “haves” file past me and the “have nots” glare at me, competition for any remaining seats.

A third woman comes out to the counter. Potential passengers push forward again, eager to plead their case before a new set of ears. She takes a deep breath and says to the expectant crowd,

“I am just the messenger, OK.”

We wait.

“The plane is overbooked. No one who has an allocated seat is volunteering to give up their seat which means that those who do not yet have a seat allocated, will not be able to get on this flight. All the flights for this afternoon are already fully booked. You will be rebooked onto a flight, tomorrow at the earliest…

The previously subdued crowd suddenly becomes much more what I would expect of a New York mob, screaming and swearing at the woman burdened with sharing this message. As questions flit through my mind “Where am I going to stay?”, “What if I can’t get home tomorrow?”, I barely register the woman handing back my boarding passes. Then she says to me,
“Congratulations, you’ve got the last seat on the plane, and you’ve got an upgrade too.”

That seat, with those “premium economy” five extra inches of legroom is the best gift I’ve received this Christmas.

Is this not the ugliest bird you've ever seen. Make mine a tofurky thanks!

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Not sure why the school bus was out on a Saturday but I liked that it matched the leaves!