Your Everyday Business Trip

In-Flight Entertainment

I imagine it's happened to you, too.

You calmly catch your 3:30am taxi to the airport, weave your way through security, do some extra preparation for the workshop you're going to lead that afternoon, and doze on the plane. And then before landing the flight attendant's voice on the intercom informs you that all passengers must remain seated until the authorities have boarded the plane and done what they need to do. And then, while everyone else's head popped up and necks began craning for a better view of the exit door being opened for the authorities, you scooted down in your seat so as to be a less visible target for any potential target-practice about to begin. And then some normal looking guy two rows up from you got escorted off the plane.

I thought so.

Hotel Service

Arriving at the hotel at 12:30pm local time, you smile wanly at the concierge, looking forward to a shower, lunch, and a chance to go over the workshop one more time. He smiles back at you, and checks his computer.

"Ah, yes, Ruth," he remarks amiably, "we have your reservation, but we don't have a room available for you."

It takes a moment until it sinks in that a room will be available eventually, though. And with 30 minutes to kill, you head into the restaurant in the hotel lobby, famished.

And then you're told that they don't have any tables.

On the Road

As you commit to waiting for your hotel room, you inform the concierge that you will need a cab. He promises to hail one for you. After finally accessing your hotel room and showering, you rush out to catch your cab.

First, of course, you make it all the way to the elevator before realizing you have left your purse, hotel room key and all your money in the now-locked room.

Then, having recaptured your wits, you stride across the lobby to the cab you see waiting for you outside. You nod happily to the concierge, who gestures to the car with a smile.

And you are right next to the cab, about to get in, when you notice that there's no driver in it. You look around. You wait. You wonder: in California, is it considered better practice to request both a cab and a cab driver?

The taxi service radio inside the car emits barked orders, questions and other static-infused commentary. You almost feel compelled to answer. Finally, the cabbie appears. It seems he had to take a leak.

He glances at a map to locate your destination, and as you head out into the highway, windows open and wind pouring wildly into the backseat, he asks if you have a music preference.

"No," you respond politely. He switches away from U2, which you were enjoying, and loud hard rock comes on. He asks if you mind the music loud.

"No," you respond politely. He turns the dial louder and louder. It makes no sense any more to go over any aspects of the workshop in your mind, which is being infiltrated by the blaring music.

For the remainder of the drive, you are the recipient of the glowers and glares of fellow motorists, including one beefy guy with a tattooed arm and Harley-Davidson-long hair.

Back to the Airport

The next morning, you make your way back to the airport. You've been up since 4:20am West Coast time, but didn't bother getting showered until your wake-up call at 6:45am. You arrive at the airport at 7:25am for your 9:00am flight back to New York via Denver.

To your shock, the airport is thronging with people. Thronging. And it's only a friggin Friday morning.

You make your way to a free computer to print out your boarding passes. Two boarding passes print out--one which informs you that you have no seat assignment to Denver and must get it at the gate (no explanation), and one which informs you that your flight from Denver to NYC is "Delayed" (no explanation).

No worries. Hakuna Matata. You have discovered, to your endless delight and glee, that the airport offers dim sum, and are in seventh heaven. And what do you care how long you spend in the airport. You now have no workshop to prepare, and can simply doze or read about the Middle East in your latest book.

Home Sweet Home

A Bangladeshi driver picks you up from the airport. You discover that your one word of Bengali is actually Bangladeshi Arabic, and you are appropriately bummed. You learn the proper word for thank you, only to forget it by the time you blog this trip the next foggy morning.

Your drive is interesting; the cabbie is talkative. You are soon engrossed and almost to the point of tears as he tells you the tale of a friend of his, a 30 year-old, who has just been dumped practically on the eve of his wedding. It's a Monsoon Wedding kind of tale, but you are totally on the side of this poor dear of a man, who has been frightfully abused by this cruel woman.

You give him a $5 tip and tell him to tell his friend that you're on his side.

On the doorstep, you find a DVD you're been longing for. It's "Nemesis," the last of the Star Trek: Next Generation films. It's your favourite. But suddenly you don't want to watch it until you've seen all the others first. You also don't want to depress yourself with the ending. Instead, you watch the special features, in which you see deleted scenes of the depressing ending you were avoiding in the first place.

After a good weep, you fall asleep at 11:30pm EST.

The next morning your mind is foggy and you're awoken by your absent roommate's alarm clock, followed by two phone calls. You groggily make your way to work, only to find that you just can't concentrate. You turn to your blog, and blearily reveal the details of each moment of the last two days. Knowing that no-one was particularly wanting to know the details in the first place. :) But it seemed a way to procrastinate without leaving the office and ruining your odds of actually completing the PowerPoint that's due by Monday.

:) Oh dear. Oh dear.

Perils of Not Wearing a Watch, or Has Our Heroine Over-Extended Her Lunchbreak?

Our heroine was returning from lunch. She was hoping it was not too much after 1:15, as she'd left at 12:10. As she had no watch, she had no real way of knowing.

The elevator doors opened on the way up, on the second floor. She had a clear view into an office. And to its clock, hanging on the wall, on the right of the seated man.

It said 2:10.

She gasped.

And then she looked to the left of the seated man. Another clock!! It said 1:10.

Her jaw dropped.

The elevator door closed.

What time WAS it??? And isn't the point of having office clocks to leave little room for doubt ABOUT THE TIME???

(~A cautionary tale about looking into the offices of Korean Airlines to ascertain the time.)

A Traditional July 4th

On July 4, after the requisite weekend in the office to prepare for a hectic month ahead (don't ask), I finally broke free to enjoy a traditional Independence Day with friends old and new.

First, of course, there was the traditional July 4 Ode to a Marshmallow.



And then, of course, there was the traditional Man-Tossing Championship.





Then we played the traditional "No, YOU'RE an American" game



And that was how we celebrated Independence Day...



Fantastically.

One of the few evenings in my life when I heard Americans break out in song... Actually, the only occasion in which this was fun and humorous, and even rather beautiful, as opposed to contrived graduation-type events.

All in all, it was delicious, fun, and a barrel of laughs. The best July 4 in this country ever. :) I'm glad I had it before leaving.

the grit under our own nails

I don't usually bother connecting with individuals at my subway station on the way to work. My iPod is on, and I'm trying to connect or retain my connection to a sense of happiness, peace and excitement about the day.

As soon as I stepped into the station this morning, I walked through the stiles to head up to the Manhattan-bound side of the tracks. I saw the Middle Eastern man arguing with the station manager in his office, but I didn't want to get involved. There were so many people milling about there, waiting for the train to near before heading up through the stiles, passively ignoring the conversation. I conformed to their example.

I stopped right after I got through the stiles. I could hear the conversation, and I watched for the station manager to realize that all he had to do was get out of his office to help this man for one minute by the ticket machine, and all would be fine. And he would have done his job.

Do you live in New York City? They've implemented this new so-called innovative and customer-friendly idea. Basically, station managers are no longer confined to their offices. They are encouraged to walk around the station, to help out people who need help, and to be more visible. What I have until now found very irritating about this, is that very often what this actually means is that you can no longer find a station manager at all. They're "somewhere else."

I mention this because I want to underline that the station manager was allowed to exit his office and help the man. In fact, that is his job.

But this is what happened, instead:

The would-be passenger tried to use the machine to buy a $2 one-way train ticket. The machine didn't let him. He then tried to buy the $2 ticket from the station manager. The manager refused and told him to buy it from the machine. He told the manager that the machine wouldn't let him. The manager continued to refuse to sell it to him. He also refused to go to the machine with the man to see what was wrong. "So what am I supposed to do?" the man cried out, frustrated.

And everyone just stood around and listened. I did too.

I don't know if it was because the guy was of Middle Eastern appearance. I don't know if this station manager was just used to not helping people. But it was shameful. It reminded me of the type of abuse that some people in authority used to heap on me in Moscow. It's humiliating. To have one's difficulty with a language and vulnerability in a foreign land be on display before others.

I went back through the stiles and to the machine. It was working but slowly. And then I saw what may have been the problem. The man was using a $2 bill--which is mostly out of currency now. I turned to the station manager and asked him if it would work, even as it spit it back out. The station manager said nothing, but changed the $2 bill for two $1 coins. And the man got his ticket.

That's all it took.

I thought about talking to the station manager afterward. In a decent tone of voice, but to press upon him that he had been unhelpful to a man whose first language wasn't English. He had been aloof and unwilling to try to understand the man. He had brushed him away. He had not treated him like an equal, like a human being deserving of as much respect as him.

The crowd had thinned with the train's arrival. It was just him in his office, and me. I looked at him for a moment.

But I hate conflict.

And so I didn't.

Instead, because my card wasn't working (certain cards won't work twice in a twenty-minute period, and I'd already gone through the stile), I asked him to let me through. He did.

I feel conflicted. On the one hand, I've come into contact with some obstructionist station managers who don't let a person through if their card isn't working for that same reason, and I appreciate his letting me through. On the other hand, I feel I should speak with him. As a person, heart to heart. Not for my sake, and maybe not for his sake, but for the sake of that poor man who was humiliated earlier. But then I wonder--am I really doing it for that man's sake? Would it make a difference? Or would it just be a salve (for me) with no actual health benefits (for anyone else)? Would any behavior change? I don't know. And maybe that's just my excuse. Because I hate conflict.

I'm not sure I'll do it. Because I'm rather the coward about that kind of stuff, and moreover, that sort of discussion is best had without an audience, and that's not something that is easy to control.

Well, it reminded me that we are sometimes (or more often than not?) horrible to our own guests in this country, and our own new countrymen. We aren't as wonderful as we should be, and as we long to be treated by others. We need to behave better. And that's true of myself, too. I waited damn long, and I've ignored situations before, preferring the safety and anonymity of my freaking iPod and irrelevant plans.

... And it suddenly occurs to me...that I get just that. When I am anonymous in my distaste for an action, when I accept it...I become part of that anonymous blob of difficulty that each newcomer to our country experiences and struggles with, like mud pulling his boots and his mood down, upon arrival to this new country, with all of its new hopes and aspirations, and new fears and realities.

Time to stop being afraid of not being anonymous.

Do I Have to Get On a Roof?

It's July 4th! And even with the sudden work implosion which kept me at work almost the entire long weekend, I am now done and free and feeling very liberated!

I have been spontaneously invited to a friend's friend's boyfriend's friend's party, which makes me feel very 16, although when I was 16 I was never in the cool enough crowd to be connected to anyone's open party like that. I'm still not in the cool-enough crowd, come to think of it. That's the nifty thing about being an old-timer such as myself. I get invited out by coincidence.

My only major trepidation when it comes to July 4th parties is that they have an awful habit of making me climb up a shaky ladder to someone's gorgeous rooftop, where I spend hours of happiness surrounded by stars, friendly people, food and fireworks, only to realize that I have to clamber back down.

Which entails the most frightening part of life--sitting on the blessed firmament of land (someone's roof) as my legs dangle, unprotected, vulnerable and all-too-breakable, in nothingness. That's as they swing hither and thither to find a ladder for me to shakily clamber down. It's a moment of putting your as-yet unparalyzed life at risk...or so it always feels to me. It's such fear as can be compared with little else that does not happen on a rooftop.

The Good Jody is looking into the rooftop situation.

No updates if I do not survive this terrifying party. :)