Homeward Bound - 7/16/06
It’s interesting how a five hour flight
can undo two weeks of hard motoring. I was expecting a pleasant
travel day, but the Universe once again treated me the way Tom Cruise
treated Oprah’s couch.
The first obstacle to overcome was “The Big Dig,” the most expensive highway project in the history of mankind. Bostonians rerouted I-93 into a 3.5 mile tunnel under the city, replacing a previously elevated roadway. They also built the Ted Williams Tunnel, which goes to Logan Airport. Since the project was completed in 2003 there have been leaks and other signs of poor execution and shoddy materials. But it wasn’t until July 10th, when four separate three-ton sections of ceiling collapsed, that most locals conceded the tunnel was “wicked bad.” One of the sections fell on a car traveling through the tunnel, killing a newlywed bride and injuring her husband. Inspectors have since discovered that you could go around New England and find basketball hoops nailed to trees with more skill than was used on these ceiling panels.
So the tunnels were closed. Fingers were pointed. Massachusettes’ Senators came to town and held a press conference. Sen. Kennedy said the important thing now was not to lay blame but to focus on the human tragedy, the death of Malena del Valle. It had a sad ring of familiarity to it, a young woman dead at the bottom of a river and Mr. Kennedy focusing us on mourning rather than blaming. Sen. Kerry stepped up and said that the money for the project came from Washington, but they trusted to locals in charge to spend it properly, so don’t blame him. He might have added that he voted against the tunnel before he voted for it, but I couldn’t keep listening. I had to pack.
Getting to Logan Airport from the South Shore seemed problematic, until my people told me about the Water Shuttle, a boat ride from the town of Quincy to the airport. I loved that idea. It rounded out the day - Land, Sea and Air. We left the house at noon and got to the dock in Quincy around 12:30, leaving plenty of time to catch the 1:10 boat to Logan.
The
boat was on time, and it provided a smooth, scenic, air-conditioned
ride to the airport. By 2 o’clock I was checked-in for my 3:55
flight on JetBlue. I bought some magazines. I also bought a
sandwich, smoked turkey on foccacio bread, to eat on the plane.
We boarded on time and we were locked up and ready to go at 3:55. I had an aisle seat and TWO empty seats next to me. I tried to figure out where I picked up all the good karma. I tipped the maids a couple of bucks at every motel. Maybe that was it.
One of the flight attendants came strolling down the aisle closing overhead bins. He stopped short and asked me if those two seats were taken. Well, no, I guess not. So he went up a few rows and found a petite young woman stuck between two strangers and offered her a seat in my row. She came back a few minutes later, perky and apologetic. I offered her half of my sandwich.
Then we got our first delay. The pilot announced that we were being rerouted. Traffic was too heavy on the Southern Route, so we would have to take a Northern path. Trucks pulled up to the plane to give us the additional fuel that we would need. And they opened the door up because somebody from JetBlue would be bringing the pilot some new paperwork. A full hour later we were taking off.
The first part of the flight was a treat. On my personal JetBlue video screen, I found a great show on ESPN Classic, Chick Hearn re-telling the story of the 1986-87 Laker Season. It starts with L.A. getting knocked out of the playoffs the year before by the Twin Towers (Olajuwan and Sampson) and being written off as over-the-hill, a team of the past. It ends with a championship over the Celtics. Those Lakers - not just great players, but a great TEAM. Magic being Magic, Cooper shutting down Larry Bird, Worthy and Scott running the break, Rambis agreeing to come off the bench so that the kid, A.C. Green, could start, Mychal and Billy Thompson chasing down balls, and Kareem hitting sky hooks while going bald. Sweet.
Next I flipped over to Comedy Central for a Daily Show/Colbert Report combo. I ordered a beer and took out my sandwich. Since my seatmate declined my offer, I had the whole sandwich to carry me through the hour. Needed and got a second beer.
We kept the vacant middle tv tuned to the map showing were our plane was and where it was headed. We passed directly over Montrose, Colorado, the terminus for Bubbles and my scenic drive through the Rockies and the place where we first enjoyed Highway 50 heading East. Our plane turned and headed directly south, towards Durango, where our scenic drive began. Even at 34,000 feet, retracing our route brought back memories. Of course, this flight pattern made no sense for a plane headed to Long Beach. I figured we must be going around a cloud.
But we kept heading south, crossing into New Mexico somewhere near Shiprock, where Bubbles first took the wheel and promptly made a wrong turn. Then our pilot made a left, so we were headed east. Finally, he explained over the intercom. No flights were being allowed into California. Something was wrong and we were going to have to land in Phoenix. Of course, in this post 9/11 world, everybody got the queasy feeling that Abdul and Akbar have pulled something off. But the pilot quickly added, “This has nothing to do with security problems.”
We flew in a holding pattern over northwest New Mexico for about an hour before moving on towards Phoenix. Man, if I wanted to go through Phoenix I would have flown with those clowns at America West and saved a few bucks. As we neared the city, the sun was going down but it was still 110 degrees and steamy, so the whole descent was bumpy and it killed my beer-buzz.
We landed to find hundreds of jets of all shapes and sizes squeezed about the tarmac. After we parked the pilot came out of the cockpit and took the mic. He was overly jovial. “Hi, it’s me. I know you hear me all the time and wonder if I really existed.” Not really. But this was becoming so surreal I wondered if I really existed. He explained that there was a blackout at a radar station in Palmdale that needed to be fixed. He promised to keep us posted. A couple of guys near the front started chanting, “Free drinks, free drinks” but nobody joined in and they quickly clammed up.
Everybody got on their cell phones. There was a fair amount of whining going on. Not from me. Compared to a night in Penn Station, this was paradise. The plane was air-conditioned and I was in a cushy leather seat with my own color TV just 8 inches from my face. I called my ride, who had just pulled into Long Beach Airport, and gave her the news. She barked at me, like I was driving the plane. She decided to go home and follow on the internet.
After about 90 minutes the pilot announced that the problem was fixed. I guess somebody in Palmdale drove over to Home Depot and picked up a generator. Soon thereafter we pulled out and queued up to take off. Our pilot estimated that we were about thirtieth in line. The planes were taking off in close succession. I was hoping we weren’t behind a 747 because I know that they leave a big wake, and planes behind them can lose control and crash, like that one in Queens a few weeks after 9/11. I looked around and resented the fact that I was the only one worried about this.
The flight went fine. I was picked up curbside a little after 11 p.m. and made it home around midnight. Travel time, door-to-door, was about fifteen hours.
Epiphany- Things have a way of coming full circle. On the first night of our trip we drove through Phoenix on our way to a late arrival in Jerome. Now, on the last night, I was back. Had I changed in the interim? Was I any wiser? The words of the poet started going through my head, “Yes, I am wise, but it’s wisdom born of pain/Yes I’ve paid the price, but look how much I gained/If I have to, I can do anything...” Then I realized. Wisdom isn’t something you can buy off the shelf. It doesn’t come because you read a book or attend a lecture. Wisdom is a garden that needs tending to, and our life experiences provide the fertilizer. These last two weeks have been a fertilizer festival, but going forward I will still need to mulch and weed and water my little plot of awareness. Nobody else can take care of my garden. Daryl Hannah will not sit in a tree on behalf of my personal growth. It may have taken two visits to this God-forsaken city to figure this out, but it was worth it. As the poet added, “I am strong (strong), I am invincible (invincible)...”
The first obstacle to overcome was “The Big Dig,” the most expensive highway project in the history of mankind. Bostonians rerouted I-93 into a 3.5 mile tunnel under the city, replacing a previously elevated roadway. They also built the Ted Williams Tunnel, which goes to Logan Airport. Since the project was completed in 2003 there have been leaks and other signs of poor execution and shoddy materials. But it wasn’t until July 10th, when four separate three-ton sections of ceiling collapsed, that most locals conceded the tunnel was “wicked bad.” One of the sections fell on a car traveling through the tunnel, killing a newlywed bride and injuring her husband. Inspectors have since discovered that you could go around New England and find basketball hoops nailed to trees with more skill than was used on these ceiling panels.
So the tunnels were closed. Fingers were pointed. Massachusettes’ Senators came to town and held a press conference. Sen. Kennedy said the important thing now was not to lay blame but to focus on the human tragedy, the death of Malena del Valle. It had a sad ring of familiarity to it, a young woman dead at the bottom of a river and Mr. Kennedy focusing us on mourning rather than blaming. Sen. Kerry stepped up and said that the money for the project came from Washington, but they trusted to locals in charge to spend it properly, so don’t blame him. He might have added that he voted against the tunnel before he voted for it, but I couldn’t keep listening. I had to pack.
Getting to Logan Airport from the South Shore seemed problematic, until my people told me about the Water Shuttle, a boat ride from the town of Quincy to the airport. I loved that idea. It rounded out the day - Land, Sea and Air. We left the house at noon and got to the dock in Quincy around 12:30, leaving plenty of time to catch the 1:10 boat to Logan.
The
boat was on time, and it provided a smooth, scenic, air-conditioned
ride to the airport. By 2 o’clock I was checked-in for my 3:55
flight on JetBlue. I bought some magazines. I also bought a
sandwich, smoked turkey on foccacio bread, to eat on the plane.We boarded on time and we were locked up and ready to go at 3:55. I had an aisle seat and TWO empty seats next to me. I tried to figure out where I picked up all the good karma. I tipped the maids a couple of bucks at every motel. Maybe that was it.
One of the flight attendants came strolling down the aisle closing overhead bins. He stopped short and asked me if those two seats were taken. Well, no, I guess not. So he went up a few rows and found a petite young woman stuck between two strangers and offered her a seat in my row. She came back a few minutes later, perky and apologetic. I offered her half of my sandwich.
Then we got our first delay. The pilot announced that we were being rerouted. Traffic was too heavy on the Southern Route, so we would have to take a Northern path. Trucks pulled up to the plane to give us the additional fuel that we would need. And they opened the door up because somebody from JetBlue would be bringing the pilot some new paperwork. A full hour later we were taking off.
The first part of the flight was a treat. On my personal JetBlue video screen, I found a great show on ESPN Classic, Chick Hearn re-telling the story of the 1986-87 Laker Season. It starts with L.A. getting knocked out of the playoffs the year before by the Twin Towers (Olajuwan and Sampson) and being written off as over-the-hill, a team of the past. It ends with a championship over the Celtics. Those Lakers - not just great players, but a great TEAM. Magic being Magic, Cooper shutting down Larry Bird, Worthy and Scott running the break, Rambis agreeing to come off the bench so that the kid, A.C. Green, could start, Mychal and Billy Thompson chasing down balls, and Kareem hitting sky hooks while going bald. Sweet.
Next I flipped over to Comedy Central for a Daily Show/Colbert Report combo. I ordered a beer and took out my sandwich. Since my seatmate declined my offer, I had the whole sandwich to carry me through the hour. Needed and got a second beer.
We kept the vacant middle tv tuned to the map showing were our plane was and where it was headed. We passed directly over Montrose, Colorado, the terminus for Bubbles and my scenic drive through the Rockies and the place where we first enjoyed Highway 50 heading East. Our plane turned and headed directly south, towards Durango, where our scenic drive began. Even at 34,000 feet, retracing our route brought back memories. Of course, this flight pattern made no sense for a plane headed to Long Beach. I figured we must be going around a cloud.
But we kept heading south, crossing into New Mexico somewhere near Shiprock, where Bubbles first took the wheel and promptly made a wrong turn. Then our pilot made a left, so we were headed east. Finally, he explained over the intercom. No flights were being allowed into California. Something was wrong and we were going to have to land in Phoenix. Of course, in this post 9/11 world, everybody got the queasy feeling that Abdul and Akbar have pulled something off. But the pilot quickly added, “This has nothing to do with security problems.”
We flew in a holding pattern over northwest New Mexico for about an hour before moving on towards Phoenix. Man, if I wanted to go through Phoenix I would have flown with those clowns at America West and saved a few bucks. As we neared the city, the sun was going down but it was still 110 degrees and steamy, so the whole descent was bumpy and it killed my beer-buzz.
We landed to find hundreds of jets of all shapes and sizes squeezed about the tarmac. After we parked the pilot came out of the cockpit and took the mic. He was overly jovial. “Hi, it’s me. I know you hear me all the time and wonder if I really existed.” Not really. But this was becoming so surreal I wondered if I really existed. He explained that there was a blackout at a radar station in Palmdale that needed to be fixed. He promised to keep us posted. A couple of guys near the front started chanting, “Free drinks, free drinks” but nobody joined in and they quickly clammed up.
Everybody got on their cell phones. There was a fair amount of whining going on. Not from me. Compared to a night in Penn Station, this was paradise. The plane was air-conditioned and I was in a cushy leather seat with my own color TV just 8 inches from my face. I called my ride, who had just pulled into Long Beach Airport, and gave her the news. She barked at me, like I was driving the plane. She decided to go home and follow on the internet.
After about 90 minutes the pilot announced that the problem was fixed. I guess somebody in Palmdale drove over to Home Depot and picked up a generator. Soon thereafter we pulled out and queued up to take off. Our pilot estimated that we were about thirtieth in line. The planes were taking off in close succession. I was hoping we weren’t behind a 747 because I know that they leave a big wake, and planes behind them can lose control and crash, like that one in Queens a few weeks after 9/11. I looked around and resented the fact that I was the only one worried about this.
The flight went fine. I was picked up curbside a little after 11 p.m. and made it home around midnight. Travel time, door-to-door, was about fifteen hours.
Epiphany- Things have a way of coming full circle. On the first night of our trip we drove through Phoenix on our way to a late arrival in Jerome. Now, on the last night, I was back. Had I changed in the interim? Was I any wiser? The words of the poet started going through my head, “Yes, I am wise, but it’s wisdom born of pain/Yes I’ve paid the price, but look how much I gained/If I have to, I can do anything...” Then I realized. Wisdom isn’t something you can buy off the shelf. It doesn’t come because you read a book or attend a lecture. Wisdom is a garden that needs tending to, and our life experiences provide the fertilizer. These last two weeks have been a fertilizer festival, but going forward I will still need to mulch and weed and water my little plot of awareness. Nobody else can take care of my garden. Daryl Hannah will not sit in a tree on behalf of my personal growth. It may have taken two visits to this God-forsaken city to figure this out, but it was worth it. As the poet added, “I am strong (strong), I am invincible (invincible)...”
Trackbacks
-
7/24/2006 6:56 PM
Independent Sources wrote:
Rocky Petralia on Boston’s Big Dig: The first obstacle to overcome was “The Big Dig,” the most expensive highway project in the history of mankind. Bostonians rerouted I-93 into a 3.5 mile tunnel under the city, replacing a previously ele...
My wisdom garden requires a heavy-duty pesticide. A fifth of Chivas every night does the trick.
Reply to this
Love good ol' Jet Blue. Flew them earlier this year, announced 1/2 way through the flight that they had to stop in Salt Lake because the jet stream used up more fuel than planned for. Lost 2 hours. 5 1/2 hour flight now 7 1/2. I love an airline that flies cross country as a non-stop and only gets about 75% of the way there.Got a 25 buck coupon for my next JB flight (NOT!)
Didn't get the drinks - F***ers. Maybe because we landed in Mormon country...
Reply to this
I knew it. I was washing dishes and heard the Special News Report announcement break through on the boob tube. I knew Rocky had to be en-route back to the west coast on that particular day at that particular time. I chuckled to myself (hoping of course that there was no threat from Mohammed Bombshoe)...I just knew Rocky was stuck in that mess. Welcome home, oh, "wise(ass)one."
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I didn't bark. And next time plan to take the shuttle.
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Enjoyed reading the long version of the flight home (as you can see, I'm doing some catching up
Bubbles
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