12/1/18: it is DECEMBER???

From Thursday night, before I collapsed into bed:

The thing that is weird that it is not actually weird to be in my own apartment after having spent the past 41 nights checking into various motels (and the occasional hotel, because I’m occasional fancy*) in New Zealand or Australia. But I guess that’s the deal with “home”—no matter how long you’ve been away, it feels like you’ve never left. Have other people been writing about this? Feels familiar.

It is currently either 7:30 or 8:30 pm, as daylight savings happened while I was gone and I need to go around and reset everything but that is a problem for another day. Speaking of, I left Sydney at 11:15 am on 11/29 and then somehow ended up at JFK around 4:30 pm on 11/29 so I don’t know what the heck is going on in terms of dates and days but I also haven’t for about 42 days so…shrug. (My sister warned me that jetlag can mess with emotions and I was like “Oh, no worries—I don’t have emotions.” Which is actually not true: I have blinding rage, passionate love, and…there must be a third. Intense curiosity? (Also I have been saying “no worries” since before this trip; I am not picking up any “down under” slang because I mostly didn’t understand it and the one phrase that sticks with me is “too easy!” which is what you say (apparently) when something is going smoothly but I don’t like how cavalier it sounds, at ALL: don’t you people fear hubris???))

And speaking of hubris, aka lesson 4, the one part of the trip I should have been expected to handle easily was…the one on which I had the closest calls of the whole six weeks. Yes, that is the airport part, of course.

First there was ridiculous traffic this/yesterday morning getting to the Sydney airport. Then I waited for 45 minutes in the wrong line, and I knew it was wrong but everyone I asked said no, no, this is the line. I finally figured out it was NOT the line then I was selected for having my passport rescanned. I was detained at security because of the folding scissors I keep with my knitting (the guy wanted to take away my double-pointed needles and tbh they are WAY more of a potential weapon than a lil’pair of folding scissors (there are 5 of them, they are each six inches long, made of aluminum, thin, and sharp)) which is why I didn’t blame the guy for seeking out two different opinions as to whether the needles were legal but in the end he had to reluctantly hand them back to me and then there was a very kindly gentleman who wanted to…swab me, I guess, as he had one of those wands with the little scrap of fabric on the end. So I was swabbed, all my stuff was swabbed, and he told me a terrible joke (“Do you know why it’s called LAX? Because those are the first three letters of laxative and that’s how that airport makes you feel.” UGH), and then—wait for it!—I went to the wrong gate. That’s on me, sure, but at the same time two flights leaving for JFK via LAX thirty minutes apart is a little confusing, especially if you’re not looking at your boarding pass which you are holding in your hand and clearly says gate 53. Guess where Gate 53 is? Halfway to Brisbane! I made the plane, but it was by the skin of my teeth and—here is the real horror of the story—I had planned to get at the airport nice and early so I could browse a bookstore and decide my plane-reading there. And that is how I came to be on a two-thousand-hour flight without a line up of books.

Ugh, I get sweaty just thinking about it.

I made the best of things and watched every movie the plane had that starred The Rock--Criminal Intelligence is an excellent flick—and even some that didn’t: including a documentary called Wayne (hi, dad!) about an Australian motorcycle racer from Wollongong, Wayne Gardner, who has an excellent life story (and not a tragic end, mother). I, Tonya was good, and The Heat never gets old for me; I can’t remember anything else from this journey other than occasional flashes from the depths of despair and the moment when I realized I was actually looking forward to the “short” flight from LAX to JFK—under five hours? Puh-lease. In other words, I would go back to NZ in a hot second but I would have to be heavily medicated for the trip itself.

I felt very much a woman on the verge as I finally got off the plane at JFK. Because I live close to the E train, public transit from JFK is generally faster than a cab and google confirmed that prediction so to the Air Train I trudged. One of the things happened where I couldn’t help but overhear some people asking directions and then saw them about to get on exactly the wrong Air Train and, heavy sigh, my fog of tired lifted just enough for me to lean over and stick my big ol’nose into their business, which is how I made the acquaintance of two nice young ladies from BUFFALO on their first-ever visit to NYC. Omg BUFFALO. These sweet friends had to be mid-thirties and not only was it their first visit to the city, they had no-holds-barred decided to talk public transit in.

I could make this story much longer, unspooling every wonderful detail of our conversations, but mainly what I want to remember is that holy shit there are still people (hi, dad!) in the world who think nothing about leaving valuables on display, keys in cars, doors unlocked, phones tucked haphazardly into back pockets, and carrying purses that literally do not close.

Maybe my favorite part was when the in-charge friend said, “Oh, wait, it’s actually East 45^th street, not west—does that make a difference?” Yes. Yes, it does. And I wish I had written down the first (painful) time I learned it myself—that would be an excellent NYC memory to have.

Anyway, that all happened on Thursday and then I got home and Facetimed with Shannon and Junie and took a shower and went to bed. I don’t remember much of Friday—I know I ordered a pizza around 1 pm and then just slept on and off all day. Today is, I THINK, Saturday, and I’m feeling semi-human. Semi. I went to the post office to pick up my held mail and the lady—without even checking anything—just told me the mail carrier would bring it, even though I said I had marked the I’ll-pick-it-up box. No, no, she blithely informed me, the mail carrier will bring it. Could you check, I ventured, to see if my mail is here? and she waved me away: He’ll bring it!

Here is just one view of this post office, which is just one reason why you don’t argue with the PO lady—you just retreat and hope your mail eventually shows up.

Outside of the post office I found a mail carrier had set his wheelie cart to the side while he helped someone with car trouble, which is pretty full-service and frankly not what I expected from the USPS.

Then I took the subway up to Behind the Book’s office and if anyone wonders why I found NZ/AUS so unbelievably beautiful and why I chased after so many animals while I was there, may I present to you one of the two animals** I regularly see, in its natural environment: a rat, the subway tracks. (The rat is one tie north of the mountain dew can, in case you're not accustomed to seeing rats on the subway tracks.) 

Nice, huh?

Tomorrow is (I believe) Sunday and it’s supposed to rain all day so I foresee a lot of lazing around in my future. I read Washington Black and Severance yesterday afternoon/evening, during moments of semi-lucidity, and both were quite good and interesting.

Later this week I’m heading to Dublin, to meet up with my beloved friend Jeannette, and then I’m getting a few days in Rome on my own—no MC, alas, but from what I hear there may be a few things to do, tourist-wise, in that town.

*I am not.

**The other is, of course, the pigeon, and before you DARE call it a "flying rat***,” I will have you know that from 1943-1949 the Dickin Medal was awarded 54 times and 32 of those went to a pigeon, for “conspicuous gallantry or devotion to duty” during WWII. These birds are absolute units.

***Maybe also stop hating on rats, if you hate on rats: they have been proven to be smarter than people (in certain experiments and in the fact that they have found the most affordable housing in NYC).

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