1-2 April, 2005; somewhere over Africa. So we spend 8 and then some hours with the screaming kid, who clearly wants her mother, judging by the sole word being screeched repeatedly, cruising at some 39000 feet into Dakar in Senegal. To piss me off even further, the kid whose mother has just taken my seat – and scored beautifully in the bargain, I must add – decides to keep himself amused during the flight by doing typical 8-10 year old boy things, like knitting. I shit you not. A full in-flight entertainment system – 16 movies, 14 TV programmes, 14 computer games (Chess, pac-man and the like) – a window seat with a view over the entire continent, and a GameBoy in his bag, and the kid is knitting. Or crocheting. Whatever. I didn’t really care which craft it was. I mean, come on, people! I rolled my eyes in disgust and swore a bit under my breath and tried (very successfully, to my disappointment) to not order any dehydrating alcohol to soothe the headache-ravaged sinus passages of my brain. The perennial congestion and bunged-up headedness is very much a trait peculiar to me – it’s like hay fever without the runny nose and streaming eyes; just a lot of congestion. As a result, I exist on a diet of coffee, antihistamines and jars of Vicks VapoRub, which hits the spot very nicely. And explains the shine on my forehead and upper lip. Anyway, about 7 hours in, the headache and resultant nausea and seat cramp and everything got a bit too much and I had to go for the hard drugs I keep in my bag. Yeah, the antihistamines – exciting times. It was a bit of a trick getting out my #4 seat in the 2-4-2 (in fact, in the last 3 rows, it’s a 2-3-2 as the plane tapers inwards) and managing to prise open the over-stuffed overhead locker and retrieve my enormous hand-luggage and from that the saving grace bottle of pills without disturbing anyone. It took me about 10 minutes of careful pushing and gentle pulling, and a fair amount of strength, to remove 2 tiny purple pills from the overhead locker without waking my neighbours – a pair of newlyishweds, whom I’m sure joined the mile-high club about an hour after Angola – and then put the luggage back into the overhead bin, very carefully and quietly. Then we hit turbulence; just for a second or two. In the ensuing rocking of the plane as I reached for my seat to steady myself, making sure I did not drop the precious pills, I dropped the precious pills. In the dim light of the cabin, and the rolling motion of the floor, and the inherent rollingness of little round dark purple pills, I stood a fuck-all chance of finding them. I returned to my seat and tried to not let the nausea manifest itself as, you know, buckets of vomit all over the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to get it over with and do the supermodel finger-down-the-gullet thing in the postage-stamp sized bathrooms, I’m afraid. We began our descent shortly afterwards, kid screaming again, and the pilots put the plane through the tarmac at Dakar. Turns out the heavy landings occur as much on a fuel-light plane as on a heavy one. Or perhaps our pilot was a bit shit. I don’t know. Anyway, they wake everyone up and some of the people get off the plane and are replaced by Senegalese and Nigerians and various other nationalities who are flying to New York from Dakar. It must be quite a shit flight – I mean, we arrived at 4am South African time, which is 2am Dakar time – a crappy time for a departure, I reckon. In addition, we have a crew swap. Out go the nice flight attendants and in come a new batch, out go the pilots – who were dubious anyway – and in come a new batch. In comes a cleaning crew, and safety personnel, to make sure that the passengers deplaning in Dakar have taken their luggage with them and not left us a bomb on board, or anything. In that regard, we all have to stand up and claim our hand luggage out of the overhead bins so they can make sure that all the luggage is accounted for before we fly into US airspace. Interestingly, they did not do this on the way back to .za from JFK… I take advantage of the opportunity to raid my bag in the light for another 2 purple pills, and two aspirin. The annoying kid, who stopped screaming shortly after landing, starts up again for the final half-hour refuel on the ground, and proceeds through the first half-hour over the northern Atlantic as well. The pilots hurl the A343 skyward, annoying safety video doing its thing in the background (my third time in 12 hours, what with the Jnb-Dkr leg and the Cpt-Jnb legs of the flight already done) and them feeding useless info to us. Not as useless as the exiting pilots had, though, who clearly are terrified by silence, or perhaps just tried to take our minds off said screaming child. They had amazing facts to dazzle us with such as “We have just taken off” – in case you weren’t sure – “ and are proceeding to pick up more passengers and some fuel at Dakar, where we will land” - bright guys, you can tell – “we are heading north-east over Botswana, and then over into Angola, where we will cross the northernmost region of the most southernwesternest corner of the most southest parts of Angola and then over parts of the sea until we get to Dakar, where we will land.” Need I say any more? Anyway… I managed, finally, to get about 5 hours sleep between Dakar and Kennedy, which suited me fine. When I came to, it was getting kinda sunrisey – you chase the sunrise the whole time, and land in New York at 7am – and everyone was starting to get up and about. Enjoyed breakfast much more than dinner – not quite sure what the chefs called it, but I’m guessing something like “horrific meat-lumps in terror sauce” or something suchlike – and pocketed the snack (a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich) for later while watching Meet the Fockers on the entertainment unit. A surprising number of people walked past into the matchbox-sized toilet and emerged like Superman from Clark Kent – fully changed and bright and fresh. Bearing in mind that I could barely squeeze myself into the toilet and shut the door, let alone take my enormous hand-luggage in and enjoy a complete change from evening-wear to casual-wear and clean teeth, but they managed somehow, so fair play to them I guess. Finally the news we have all been waiting for: we have begun our descent and will be on the ground in under an hour. It is now light enough to see out the window; the captain confirms that the weather is quite putrid and we will be landing in a storm of note. The woman with the knitting kid leans over to me and says, all sarcastic-like, “looks like you won’t be taking your picture after all, will you?” Cow. Anyway, they shut down the entertainment and hand out Immigration forms and play a video of what needs to be filled in where, courtesy of the US Dept of Filthy Foreigners, or something similar. They warn you explicitly in the video to not fuck it up. I have been advised about this already, and what to fill in where, and I have my invitation letter to the conference in my travel pouch with my email from the US Embassy saying I don’t need a visa. I fill in the form. The Captain speaks “Well, we’re cleared to land, and our first officer has kindly er… volunteered… to bring us in, for which I am very thankful. We’re cleared on runway 04 right. That may not mean anything to most of you, but it’s basically the runway heading northeast, and is kinda short, so we’ll be slowing down as much as we can to make sure we don’t overshoot into the bay. It may be a little rough, so er… to hell with it; strap yourselves in and hold on tight. We’re coming in hard.” A brief delay. “Thanks for flying the friendly skies with us and we hope to see you soon.” Choice words, I thought. Anyway, he’s not kidding. We hit the runway hard and bounce and skid a bit. When it becomes apparent that we are not about to have the wings broken off, or the fuel tanks explode, some clown attempts a spontaneous round of applause before some other clown tells him to “shut the fuck up.” It’s a good 10 minute taxi from runway 04 Right into the parking spot at Terminal 3 – Delta’s terminal, a complete hole in the ground – and finally we are able to get off the plane and, in my case, experience the joys of extremely foreign parts for the first time ever. Of course, there are some 350 people on the plane, and everyone is in a mad frantic panic to exit, and I am in the very back row, so I am about number 341 to leave. We go into the horrifically grey terminal, walk down an escalator which is not switched on and into Customs and Immigration. There is a young woman there, in uniform, and only 4 of the eleven thousand counters are manned. The hundred-odd US citizens on board are shunted into one queue and given three counters to be processed; the remaining 250 of us get to share the last guy. When the hundredth Yank is done, we are allowed to use the other counters as well. It’s a particularly bleak place. It looks like Home Affairs in Bellville. Home Affairs is the local equivalent of the State Department or the Home Office – where you go to get your passports and visas and ID documents and death certificates and all that jazz. Bellville is a crappy major suburb of the Cape Town metropole, mostly populated by Afrikaans people and it comes across as extremely kitsch and uber-tacky. Like luminous pink leather shoes, say; or a bright yellow car with a sunroof and purple trim. Home Affairs in Bellville is the place where bad people go when they die. Almost three hours pass before I finally get processed, lugging my huge carry-on about 4 steps every 6 minutes. An annoying voice advises everyone to please stand clear and to not play or walk on the luggage carousels, for our safety and the safety of others around us. CNN Airports is blaring on 3 elderly TV sets bolted to the roof. We watch, impassive and tired, as the Pope slips in and out of his coma. They ask me repeatedly what my business is and where I am staying, and who is the person I am staying with and where is the place I am staying and who am I staying with again? And how do I know this person? I was fully expecting to be hauled into a side-room and anal-probed before my passport was stamped, I was fingerprinted and photographed and I was told to have a nice day and proceed to baggage claim. I get to baggage claim. It’s deserted – clearly Delta’s terminal only has one international flight arriving before 10am today. The carousel has been switched off. There are only 4 bags left on it, standing, forgotten as an old nursery rhyme. Mine is not one of them. I panic and run around the carousel twice. The words of baggage claim in Joburg echo in my head like a love letter in a shitty TV movie: “Next time you’ll see them again is New York.” I am concerned, knowing I only have 1 change of clothes in my carry-on, and I am flying to DC in less than 24 hours from a different New York airport. I’m wondering if my suitcase has gone to the vengeful airport gods when someone points it out, stashed behind a pillar. I grab it and head out into the bleak midwinter, to the Ground Transportation Desk. There, I have been advised by several websites, and the “Welcome to JFK informational video screened by SAA, is the end of the rainbow, and a team of fast, friendly and efficient people will usher me smoothly out of Jamaica Bay and on to wherever my little heart desires. In my case, that’s a Starbucks, 400 Madison Avenue, where Ryan has arranged to meet me. Him and Sam, his good woman, are accountants with a large firm over there, and they have offices on Park Avenue and 51st Street in Manhattan, just around the corner from the aforementioned coffee house. The Ground Transportation Desk is even more deserted than baggage claim was. Of the original 350 of us, about 7 remain. Now we are the forgotten, like the old obscure nursery rhymes, lost as recently surrendered virginity. There are some instructions on the wall, and a few red phones – hotlines to the outside world. We can see through the doors to the outside world. It’s pissing with rain; freezing cold. You can barely see your hand in front of your face. I know I am looking for the one and only Supershuttle, car service extraordinaire, who will bear me on wheels of gold into the city which never sleeps. I find their listing and dial, cunningly disguised in my mind as an old pro who will not be played for a sucker; the reality, of course, somewhat different. A fast, friendly efficient person answers the phone and asks for my hotel destination. Supershuttle specialize in hotel drop-offs; I am trying to get to Grand Central alongside the Starbucks and there are a couple of hotels there which I am going to pretend to be staying in if they don’t bite for the Station. In the end, I say “400 Madison Avenue.” “I need an address,” she replies. That takes me by surprise, a little bit. I’m thinking, I said 400 Madison Avenue, didn’t I? Don’t they have addresses in this blasted country? They must do – Ryan emailed me the location and it says 400 Madison Avenue. Maybe she just didn’t hear the number. “The address,” the old pro in my fresh-faced, dewey-eyed youth’s body says, “is 400 Madison Avenue.” “I heard you the first time. Where is that?” Great. The people responsible to carry me to my final destination in a winged chariot and feed me grapes and fan me with palm leaves for my entertainment pleasure, don’t know the way around there own city. It dawn on me – there must be several Madison Avenues in the area – we are some distance out of Manhattan anyway. “It’s in Manhattan.” “I know that. It’s a long road. Where?” Now I’m stumped. Where is number 400? Probably somewhere fairly close to 399, I’m guessing, or can these people not count?. “How the hell must I know? I’m a tourist!” “I can tell. I need a cross street. Do you have a cross street?” “What?” "Madison and which street? A corner, that’s what I need. So we can find a way to get you there on a shuttle going that way.” “I don’t have a cross street. All I have is 400 Madison Avenue.” “Well, I can’t help you. Find a cross street and call me back.” She puts the phone down in my ear. There is a Senegalese woman standing nearby, trying to get to Penn Station. I know that’s sort-of near Grand Central, give or take a few blocks. She asks if she can ride with me. I confess that at the moment, I am riding to nowhere. There is a bank of payphones in the corner, but none of them will accept any coins or notes – calling cards only. I don’t have one of those. Even so, I don’t have a phone number for the Starbucks, and there are no, you know, phone books attached to the payphones, so I can’t even find an address from there. I am now beginning to veer away from stark panic and moving towards sheer bloody-minded pissed offedness. Eventually, I spot a tiny kiosk displaying signs of life. It sells LifeSavers and maps of New York and, glorious heaven, phone cards. It sets me back $15 – that’s almost 100 bucks in .za money – but I get a phone card. Haul out my mobile – now cursing I didn’t opt for international roaming – and attempt to retrieve Ryan’s number. All of a sudden, the Senegalese woman hoves into view. “Dere is a bos.” The East and West Africans have beautifully accented English – I never tire of hearing it. “A bus? Where? Where’s he going?” “He say he can take os to de island. To 34th street Penn Station.” I’m thinking this is a little dubious. Some strange bus, some strange bus driver, nobody around to be the last person to see us alive or anything. And the JFK webpage does stress that you shouldn't take any unsolicited rides. But we don’t have much choice, and suddenly the bus driver is there, in front of me. “Hey, man, you also stuck? You with her? Come on, come on the bus, man.” I’m not too sure. “I’m trying to hook up with Supershuttle,” I say. “Man, not Supershuttle, man. MTA. New York City bus services. I’m here – it will take them 20 minutes to send somebody to pick you up, and that’s if they don’t make you walk to Terminal 6, man, in the rain.” Indeed, I peer at the uniform and it has MTA badges all over it. “Come on, man, let’s go. I’m going to Grand Central and the Ports Authority Bus Terminal.” “An’ 34th Street Penn Station?” “Lady, don’t worry – I’ll get you there. Come on the bus. Let’s go.” Who can argue? I haven’t made my call, but I have my phone card, and anywhere in Manhattan is closer to 400 Madison Avenue than Terminal 3 at JFK. We get on the bus, and off we go. The view from the bus is non-existent because of the rain. I have the Lonely Planet guide to New York open in front of me, and I am trying very hard to spot some road names which will indicate where we are. I’m looking for skyscrapers and Central Park and the old Fulton Street Fish Market. And the Brooklyn Bridge and City Hall and Broadway and Times Square. It’s kinda chaotic – cars zooming past everywhere, even though nobody can see fuck-all, at high speed; horns blaring, roads and parkways and tunnels and interstates and far too many bridges and flyovers. In Cape Town we have very few bridges and flyovers and our traffic is terrible. In New York they have hundreds of bridges and flyovers and their traffic is still terrible. Seems a bit of a waste, really. Suddenly it goes dark. There are then orange lights everywhere. I realise we are in a tunnel of some sort, but I can’t place it on the map. Then it gets light again. I peer through the window and realise that what was bleak rained-out old buildings, a few stories high, covered in graffiti and grey weather, has given way to steel and concrete and lots and lots of height. The bus pulls up at a red light and the driver announces “This is Grand Central.” I realise that this is it and I have, officially, arrived. -d-