Tried to Lose Myself

A long day that was extended by twelve hours as days do when you cut across time zones.  My Di Di driver on the way over to the airport tried to explain to me on the phone that she’d need to drop me off in the parking area.  I was on another call and hurriedly told her we’d sort it out on later.  I immediately assumed she was out for her own interests in this, until she said: “The African Summit.”  Got it.  The internet is disrupted all day long, cops on every corner and yes, the airport is also sacrificing convenience for officialdom.  

At the counter they told me the seat next to mine was still free.  That was a good thing until it wasn’t.  Expectations running high, I was determined to eat more than then meager economy meal I had coming.  After that meal I was supposed to not eat again until six hours after we landed, which sounded like a very long time.  I haven’t taken this intermittent fasting across a time zone yet.  Way up beyond my gate I found a Costa and beyond that a place that had a bar where I sat and finished the insides of a chicken and a tuna sandwich and washed it down with a beer and a scotch before making my way up to the gate and on to my seat to notice that I would indeed have an immediate neighbor for the next twelve hours. 

The internet was slow.  I got a few emails out.  I’ve been laboring with this Amos OZ book for a while now.  As with all novels, I started out expecting to be transported, considered the salutations on the book jacked.  Slow, disjointed, I’d crawled through the first two hundred pages, on this flight I was determined to knock it off.  Maybe this book would find a flow.  It didn’t.  At some point I decided to treat myself to some rest and was able to sleep for a few hours. 

Immigration only has one homeland security guard available for the plane full of passengers.  We waited and I tried to lose myself in music, till the immigration officers mounted their booths, one by one.   What looked like one Filipino gentleman and another rather emaciated Vietnamese fellow had created a parking lot full of suitcases at the baggage carousel.  More bags kept loading down and on to the spinning track.  I walked round and round and didn’t see my bag.  The Vietnamese guy yelling at a guy who’d deigned to argue with him.  I reconsidered asking him about the logic of the parking arrangement.

Walking out I was confused.   SFO had no customs  check.  It looked like they were off for the day.  Outside it was sunny, as always in SFO, beyond the fog.  My friend met me with a smile and we went upstairs to have some coffee.   

Wednesday 9/5/18