5/31/09

           My boarding pass said that the flight was leaving at 4 a.m.

            The Royal Jordanian agent told me that I should be at the gate no later than 2:30 a.m.

            This wasn’t a big deal.

            After all, nothing in the airport was open at this hour anyway.

            What else was I going to do?

            I made it through security without any issues.

            After passing through Reagan security three times in one day, going through one metal detector at JFK seemed like a breeze.

            I sat by the gate and was reassured to actually see a plane out on the tarmac.

            Lots of Arab families began to fill the seating area.

            There were many kids running around, screaming and crying.

            I was about to get on an 11-hour flight and I hoped that all these kids would either chill out or at least not be seated next to me.

            I struggled to stay awake as 2:30 a.m. came and went.  The man at the desk put out food and beverages for us as we continued to wait to board.

            From a distance it looked like he was giving away glazed donuts, which would have hit the spot perfectly.

            What I found was a piece of bread with a slice of cheese in it. It was wrapped in plastic, which gave it the appearance of a sticky glaze from the distance.

            “Whatever,” I thought as I grabbed one.

            We boarded sometime after 3:30 a.m.

            I was seated in the middle section of the middle row, seat 19F.

            I didn’t see many kids sitting around me and I somewhat nervously waited to discover who would be sitting on either side of me.

            It could be a very tight flight depending on the size of my neighbors.

            As more and more passengers took their seats, it seemed that I might be the only person seated in my row.

            “I wonder if I could sprawl out and sleep across all four seats,” I thought.

            The airplane was eventually sealed and I still had no neighbors.

            One man moved into my row a seat away from me.

            We both had plenty of space and this also helped the man he had been sitting next to, who was pinned against a window.

            Again, I fell asleep before takeoff.

            The rush and excitement of air travel has seemed to fade away with me.

            The flight attendant had given me a set of earphones and eye covers, which I put down on the seat next to me.

            I took out my ipod, place it on the same seat and fell asleep within minutes.

            I woke up to a dark and silent plane.

            It was eerie to look out and see rows of heads bob and sway in unison with the turbulence of the airplane.

            Almost everyone was asleep.

            But the most startling discovery was that I had a new neighbor.

            I looked over to my right, which was the seat that I had placed all my stuff in, and saw an older man in a deep sleep.

            “Oh, OK,” I thought, “This is a little weird. Where did this guy come from?”

            The man was snoring, he wasn’t wearing shoes and he continually slumped into my area.

            His advance eventually won him full reign of the armrest that we both shared.

            Still, I had an empty seat to my left that I could lean into and avoid his invading force.

            But he wasn’t just conquering territory. He was taking hostages.

            My earphones were gone and he was wearing the eye cover that the flight attendant had given me.

            He had helped himself to whatever was placed on the seat.

            But the biggest casualty was that he was sitting on my ipod.

            Trapped under this snoring old man was my small helpless mp3 player.

            The playlist had ended so I was now wearing earbuds that just played silence.

            I couldn’t watch the in-flight movie because this man’s ass was right on top of where the earbuds plug into the ipod.

            I realized that I had to do something.

            This was a long flight and it would be even longer if I didn’t have anything to listen to.

            So I gently pushed on the man’s arm, which was now advancing past the armrest and breaching the divide between seats.

            He let out an extra loud snore, readjusted and leaned away from me.

            I had gotten him to retreat some but he still had my ipod hostage.

            This guy was clever.

            Thankfully, since everyone else on the plane was asleep it was fairly quiet and I was able to fall asleep without my music.

            I woke up again to find my slumbering neighbor still by my side.

            But he had moved again and I could see my ipod.

            He was sitting on one end of it, which leveraged the free end up in the air. It was almost reaching out to me for help.

            Without hesitation I went in for the rescue.

            I got a firm grip on my ipod and pulled it free when the man took a deep breath.

            Victory was mine. I had my ipod back.

            Shortly after, the man woke up and left.

            I thought he had gone to the lavatory and would return but he never came back.

            The rest of the flight was a series of naps, movies and meals.

            I read up on the literature Merissa had sent us about Jordan.

I watched some movies on my itouch and on the plane’s TV.

I listened to my ipod that was now free from captivity.

The flight didn’t seem too long until the final two hours.

There was a map of our flight that made it look like we were very close to Amman but still had two hours to go.

Perhaps I was just getting excited or was finally at my wits end but the final leg of the flight was very trying as I anticipated my long overdue arrival in Jordan.

We landed around 10 p.m. amid applause from the other passengers.

The landing was particularly smooth but I had never considered applauding the pilot for his successful task.

I had finally made it to Jordan.

I exchanged some money, easily made it through customs and picked up my luggage in 15 minutes.

The planes, trains and automobiles side-story of my trip was over.

That’s at least what I had thought.

I now had to fetch a taxi and get a ride to the Le Royal Hotel.

I found a cab driver outside the airport, showed him the address to the hotel and off we went.

Driving to Amman at night gave Jordan an added hint of mystery.

I could barely make out the outlines of buildings and houses along the highway as we drove in almost complete darkness.

I could see the mansions along the highway that my former professor, Dave Burns, told me about.

Wealthy Iraqi refugees, who fled their country in the Gulf Wars, inhabit these huge houses.

Other buildings looked abandoned or incomplete and reminded me of the Call of Duty video game.

I was surprised to see a fair amount of police stationed along the highway as they set up speed traps.

My first impression of Jordan traffic was that it’s pretty manageable.

The driving seemed safe and I never feared for my life on the way to the hotel, which is more than you can say about some New York City taxis.

The driving must be safe because people seem to just pull off the highway and hang out.

All along the side road from the airport I saw cars pulled over with people sitting around and hanging out. They would sit in front of the car and use its headlights to help them with whatever they were doing.

Traffic picked up as we got closer to Amman.

There were more lights and buildings as we weaved through the country’s capitol.

There were also lots of posters of His Majesty King Abdullah bin al-Hussein II and his father, the late King Hussein bin Talal.

As we emerged from a tunnel, a towering building appeared ahead of us.

“This is Le Royal,” the cab driver said to me.

“Oh wow,” I said in awe as we pulled up.

The cab was scanned for bomb materials before the concierge lowered a barricade and allowed the car to pull up by the door.

All my bags where then put through an x-ray machine before they were brought into the building.

I got a small laugh out of explaining to the man running the x-ray machine that my camera bag had a stick microphone in it.

He was concerned with the microphone that, when looking at it with the x-ray machine, resembled a “toy” that is meant to be like a part of the male anatomy.

Pornography, after all, is not allowed in the country.

After checking in, I made it up to my room on the 13^th floor.

The view from my room was amazing and I could not wait to see it in the daytime.

I had finally made it to Jordan and spent the night in a bed for the first time in 48 hours.

The next objective was to track down the rest of my press group and catch up on what I had missed.

5/30/09

It was an early morning.

I arrived back at Reagan a little after 5 a.m. with my first class ticket in hand.

            While waiting to board, I decided to call Royal Jordanian Airlines and check the status of my afternoon flight to Jordan.

            I should’ve known things would not go smoothly.

            The next flight to Jordan departed JFK at 4:30 a.m. on May 31^st.

            “I’m going to miss this entire trip,” I thought. But I didn’t have much time to think about it.

I was about to board my flight to JFK and I was still excited about flying first class.

When I got on the plane there was a pillow on my large seat and a water bottle waiting for me.

I chugged the water and rested my head against the window.

I fell asleep so fast that I missed the flight attendant’s offer of pre-flight drinks.

I remember waking up and wondering how much longer it would be before we took off.

But as the plane banked in mid-air I realized that I had slept through takeoff.

I fell asleep again before even looking out the window.

I woke up to the sudden jolt and screeching noise of the airplane landing.

After picking up my luggage and switching terminals, I now had to find the Royal Jordanian check-in desk.

It was time to get down to business.

I would do whatever it took. I was going to be on the next flight to Amman.

I accomplished my goal.

The only problem was that the 4:30 a.m. flight was the next flight to Amman. There was nothing earlier.

So at 8 a.m., I called my parents again.

My mom was so excited when she answered the phone.

“Hi Bud!” she exclaimed.

“Hey,” I replied in a straightforward tone.

The way I said hello immediately clued my mom into knowing I had hit another roadblock.

My dad decided to call his sister, my aunt, who lives in New York and I contacted Merissa to give her the latest developments in my Jordanian saga.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t become a tragedy.

My aunt called me and said that her and my uncle were in Phoenix, Arizona but that my cousin, Maredith, would pick me up from the train station and take me back to their house.

My newest objective was to find a safe place to store my luggage, take a taxi to Grand Central Station and take a train up to Chappaqua, New York.

After locking up my luggage, I headed outside to find a taxi.

On my way out, a man came up to me and said, “taxi?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Grand Central Station.”

“OK, let’s go,” he said excitedly and we headed for his car.

On the way out I heard an announcement in the airport.

“Do not accept rides from anyone inside the airport. They may not be licensed taxi cab drivers and may not be insured,” it said.

“Oh great,” I thought, “what did I get myself into now.”

The man led me to his car. It was a charcoal GM Suburban and not a yellow Impala or Crown Victoria.

I was nervous but enjoyed the drive at the same time.

On one hand, I was thinking of ways I could bail out of the SUV with all my camera gear if this guy turned out to not be legit.

On the other, I felt like a VIP driving through the city in the back of a Suburban by myself with my own driver.

We passed Queens Boulevard and I thought about HBO’s show “Entourage.”

But driving in this massive SUV made me feel more like Avon Barksdale from HBO's The Wire.

I safely arrived at Grand Central Station and saw that there was some sort of street market going on right next to the station.

So rather than hopping onto a train, I decided to wander the streets for a little bit.

After all, I was basically stranded in New York City until 4:30 a.m. the next day.

I got something to eat and decided it would be a good idea to film this market.

I knew there would be street vendors in Jordan so I thought this could be a cool opportunity to contrast two cultures doing the same thing.

After filming for a while I went into Grand Central and bought my ticket for Chappaqua.

I boarded the train half an hour early and fell asleep.

My only sleep in the last 24 hours was on a plane and a train.

Once in Chappaqua, my cousin picked me up from the train station and brought me back to her house.

She set me up in a guest room to take a nap but I spent the time writing this second memoir instead.

We grilled out that evening and waited for my aunt and uncle to come home.

One bottle of Patron and another bottle of white wine later and we were all having a grand time.

After a fun evening of sharing stories with my aunt and cousin, it was time to start my journey again.

My aunt dropped off me and my cousin, who was heading back to her apartment in Manhattan, at the train station and we headed to Grand Central.

From there I took a “regular” taxi back to JFK. This ride wasn’t as stylish as my first but the cab driver knew how to speed.

I got to the airport around 1:30 a.m.

I was checked in and ready to go. I sent a message to Merissa that she could expect me later that day and called my parents to tell them that I was finally on my way to Jordan.

 

 

5/29/09

“If you can call security, you can call your manager! If you can call security, you can call your manager,” yelled a man with long hair and a black rock band t-shirt.

The shrewd Delta agent behind the counter quietly told the man to calm down as the middle-aged rocker grabbed the phone from behind the desk and slammed it down in front of the timid Delta representative.

The Delta employee looked towards the ground and scurried away quietly threatening to call security. He disappeared into a crowd of tired, stressed and angry airline passengers.

The middle-aged rocker, still cursing the powers that be, cautiously backed away from the counter and returned to the bar next to our gate.

This is how my trip to Jordan began.

It actually began a few hours earlier when my flight was delayed due to inclement weather.

My flight was scheduled to depart Reagan National Airport at 5:59 p.m.

But not soon after getting through security, I noticed that the flight had been delayed to 6:35 p.m.

“No worries,” I thought, that still put me at JFK around 8 p.m. I would have plenty of time to get to the Royal Jordanian terminal and be on my way.

But as six o’clock approached, no plane had even docked at our gate.

Some frantic newly weds were on the phone with a Delta agent who assured the couple that they would be in New York by 8 p.m.

That’s when a flight attendant of our troubled flight spoke up. She was waiting in line with the rest of us at the unattended desk by our boarding gate. She knew the person on the phone was feeding this couple a line of bullshit.

I also noticed on another screen that our departure had been pushed back to 7:15 p.m.

Still, the screen by our gate comfortably assured us that we would be boarding at 6:05 p.m. for our 6:35 p.m. flight.

At 6:00 p.m., I was standing in a growing line of frustrated passengers who were looking at a gate with no airplane.

Finally, a man came over and grabbed the microphone by the gate.            The tone and pace of his announcement showed that this was just another by the book line that employees were trained to say.

Screams, swearing and weeps followed his announcement that our plane would not depart until 8:05 p.m.

Our plane, in fact, had not even left JFK at this point.

“OK,” I thought, “that puts me there at 9:30. It’s getting close but I still think I can do it.”

             I even thought about paying an extra $50 to get a first class ticket and a quicker exit out of the plane.

Every minute began to matter.

I called my parents as I headed back to the check-in area where I hoped by some grace of God I could find a solution to this growing problem.

Waiting in the line to talk to an actual person proved impossible. If I was to board the plane by 7:35 p.m., I wouldn’t have time to speak with someone.

So I walked back through security, again.

I was able to talk with the tiny Delta man that the middle-aged rocker would later yell at. He told me that the plane still had not left JFK and we wouldn’t be leaving D.C. until 9:30 p.m. at the earliest.

“Oh shit.” The moment of truth had come. I wasn’t going to make my flight to Jordan.

I called my parents and Merissa Khurma, the director of the press trip.

She was already in Jordan and called me back at 2:00 a.m., her time. I could tell she was disappointed and only half-awake. She suggested that I try to get myself on Delta’s flight to Jordan the next day.

So out I went again, heading back to the ticket counter with an ever-growing line of angry customers who desperately wanted to get to New York.

After talking with my parents, we decided the best option would be to fly to New York that night.

No matter how late my flight ended up leaving, it would be easier to spend a night in an airport terminal in JFK and get to Jordan first thing the next day.

So for a third time I headed through security. Each time a different person had checked my ticket and I.D.

There was so much scribble on my boarding pass that I thought I surely looked like a suspicious character.

On the other hand, I was accustom to the security screening and had all my electronics, metal objects and shoes ready to go before anyone barked orders at me.

By just doing the odds, I figured I would have been selected for a “special” screening at least once. But I passed right through all three times.

The flight had been delayed again to 9:55 p.m.

“Oh well,” I thought. I was going to JFK no matter what.

But while I had accepted my fate on this struggling flight, it was at this point that the middle-age rocker was slamming a phone on the counter.

Watching the altercation with mild amusement, I saw that Merissa had texted me.

My Jordan flight at JFK was delayed until 1 a.m.

“Oh my God! I’m going to make it!”

I called my parents with the good news and headed to the bar to get a nice tall drink to relax.

Everything has a way of working out. I sat down with my double Jack and Coke and began to type this memoir.

Sure a middle-aged rocker was almost arrested and lots of passengers were still upset. But I never let the stress get to me and how was I rewarded?

I was going to make it to Jordan after all.

But then there was more commotion from the tumultuous Gate 15.

Cancelled. The damn flight was cancelled.

“What now? How do I get my luggage? When am I going to get to New York?”

I headed out past the metal detectors for a fourth time.

“How many more times am I going to have to do this?” I asked myself.

I was now in a line with full-blown pissed off customers. Some were glaring ahead at the line they had to wait in before talking to a Delta agent, others were calling family and friends but most were talking to a robotic answering system as they frantically called Delta in the hopes of securing a new flight.

“No-oh… res-erh-vay-shun.” Their anger and frustration built with every word they had to sound out for the happy automated voice on the other end of the line.

I managed to get through to an actual person on the phone and booked a flight the next morning leaving from Dulles.

My dad was on his way to get me and I was now in a search for my luggage.

I was beaten and dejected. My mood was only matched but the dark clouds of the thunderstorm outside, which had cause this whole problem to begin with.

When I got to the counter, the woman kindly asked how she could help me.

“I just want to find my luggage,” I said. My body language and tone clearly showed that I had given up on everything.

“I see that you’re booked out of Dulles,” she said, “would you like to fly out of here?”

“That would be terrific,” I said, “But I was told that everything in the morning was booked.”

“Oh no no no,” she said in an almost flirting manner. “I remember you,” she said, “I checked you in when you got here.”

“Oh yeah,” I replied in kindness. I didn’t remember this lady and even if she had helped me before, I didn’t care at this point.

“How about we fly you out at 6:30 a.m. first class?” she asked.

I had won.

Forget the flight delays and the fact that I was missing my flight to Jordan. I got Delta Airlines to give me a free first class ticket.

I beat the system. The middle-age rocker would have been so proud.

The next step was to find a ride back to the airport for the next morning.

Thankfully, my friend Nathasha said she could help.

But as I stood outside the Reagan metro stop making plans with Nathasha, my phone, which I had been using almost non-stop for the past three hours, died.

Luckily, I remembered a useful bit of advice a 23-year-old homeless man once told me. He said that most buildings have outdoor outlets.

Sure enough, there was an outlet right outside the building near the metro station.

So there I stood on my cell phone connected to the outside of Reagan National Airport.

People kept walking by and staring at me as I finalized plans with Nathasha.

I then realized that I didn’t have my key to my apartment in College Park.

I quickly called my roommate and made sure that he left the door unlocked for me.

After a day like today, it would be fitting that it would end with me sleeping outside my own home.

But things were looking up.

I wasn’t going to miss much of the trip and I was flying first class the next morning.

It would be an early morning, but I’d be back on track and would finally get to Jordan.