Arriving back at the hotel that evening, I happened to catch the elevator with two officers of some sort (black uniforms, white hats... can’t be bothered to Google it). One was male, the other female. I could instantly tell the male was pissed ‘cause, let’s face it, I’m Irish, I can spot a drunk a mile away. After much slurring of words, he attempted to use his mobile phone, which he promptly dropped. Bending over to pick it up, he landed in a heap on the elevator floor.
I waited until I had exited the lift before rolling my eyes, for fear of having the shit kicked out of me and being dragged off to Guantanamo Bay or some such unholy place to be tortured and to await (unfair) trial for the rolling of one’s eyes in the presence of an officer of the United States of America. Lucky escape.
By now I’d had enough. It was time to say goodbye to the Big Apple. I packed my bags and headed for JFK. My mood immediately improved. And I have to say, I was very impressed by their first class lounge. Free food, free internet, free newspapers, comfortable seats...
And I had a good chuckle when, on my way to board, I spotted Miss Teen Vermont USA. How did I know it was her? She was wearing her sash! In the middle of the airport! Kudos to the girl for having absolutely no shame whatsoever.
A second chuckle was forthcoming when I was asked by an airport employee where I was from and, replying “Ireland”, she looked puzzled and asked “So does that make you Irish?” Yes, dear, it does. After further questioning from her, I explained that Ireland was quite an agricultural country, at which point she proclaimed that she loved to talk to nature. And when it became clear that she had absolutely no idea where she was, she tried to explain that she only worked in Terminal 5 and didn’t really know her way around the rest of the airport.
We were still in Terminal 5.
Bless her. I assume she was working for the airport on some sort of “let out for the weekend” programme.
Flying home, I reflected on my stay. On the one hand, the fact that all the streets were at right angles appealed to my obsessive compulsive side, and the fact that nothing was more than a block away appealed to my lazy side. On the other hand, I paid $20 to visit the observation deck of the Empire State Building, only for the elevator to bring me to the 86th floor and, there, for the staff to demand another $15 for me to actually get to the 102th floor at the top. Apparently, “observation deck” does not a top floor make.
I had seen it all: a taxi driver plough into the side of a building, two guys on the street selling a book entitled “How to roll a blunt, for dummies”, and a police woman direct traffic at a junction where the traffic lights were fully functioning.
I had learned a lot: Classic Coke tastes like classic crap, the portrayal in Sex & the City is wildly inaccurate, and all the toilet attendants must be deaf due to the volume at which the toilets flush.
It was truly a horrible experience. I hated it.
And I can’t wait to go back.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment