JFK
Like a moron, I had arranged to return my car the day before my flight. I have no idea why. This left me with a dull night to spend at JFK airport. Hotels were astonishingly pricey ($200 upwards), so I settled on the JFK Inn, a cheap motel.
It was cheap in the sense Motel 6 was cheap: clean, with good facilities, but a little seedy. There was, of course, nothing of interest nearby, so I passed the evening by having two baths and watching CNN.
I also ordered a Chinese meal. When it arrived, I accidentally undertipped the delivery guy, and he queried this. I gave him a little more. “A dollar?” he said, stepping towards me and peering at where I’d stacked my change.
It was an awkward situation. I hadn’t tipped him enough, but wasn’t going to be intimidated into giving him more. I refused; he left angrily; and I worried, for the rest of the night, about him returning with vengeful friends. “You tip me a dollar? How much you tip me now?”
The next morning, my wake-up call came at 3am. I shaved (my new theory is that, if I look better, I feel more awake) and dressed. Out into the foyer, where I drank some of the permanently ready coffee and talked to a pleasant girl who liked my accent. It occurred to me that the previous evening would have been much more pleasant if we’d met then.
The shuttle to the airport arrived. After unloading my bag, the driver opened his arms, palms upwards, in a “So, am I getting a tip?” gesture. This struck me as much more agreeable than the method used by the delivery man. I’m not sure why. Perhaps any human contact at 3am seems polite.
I’d arrived stupidly early, as I always do for flights. There were four hours before take-off. I checked in, but my bag was overweight: the attendant insisted I transfer some books to my carry-on bag. For the rest of the day, that bag was so heavy that I needed to carry it in front of me with both hands.
Already highly caffeinated, I decided not to drink more coffee, and slept for an hour or so.
The date was September 11th, which meant the flight was beautifully empty. I stretched out across three seats and slept, then read a psychology book I’d bought. The flight flashed by and I arrived in Heathrow.
I’m now sitting back at home, typing this, and recovering from jetlag. So far, the jetlag is bad: I slept from 8am to 4pm today. It’s now nearly 4am. It’s probably time for bed.
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