A Comedy of Errors

(Written in haste; please pardon any errors.)

I'm in New York, and I don't know whether to laugh or to cry about it. The flights yesterday, from Tegel to London-Heathrow and London-Heathrow to JFK airport took a long time, and this time was rendered much longer by the raging toothache which caused a walnut-sized bump to form to the right of my chin. I had aspirin, fortunately, and on the transatlantic flight I received some other medication from the stewardesses, after "signing my life away," i.e. indicating that I was doing so at my own risk, as one of them wryly said. But I liked the flight in all other aspects, except for the soggy sandwiches that were served for breakfast. Beside me there was a friendly woman from New Jersey, and we chatted away for a while; across the aisle there was a rather unfriendly man from one of the Carolinas who spoke in a southern drawl, told the steward "Don't lecture me" when the latter was pointing out that he could not come to serve people during takeoff (the man had pressed the button), and chatted with another presumably southern girl who followed up sentences with a "sir" that was supposed to be respectful but came off as affected. The flight took longer due to strong headwinds and the collapse of some equipment behind us when we were still in the berth.

At JFK, customs took forever, in a stifling, low-ceilinged room where even the three large fans did not help much. There was still a pained throng of foreigners when all the American citizens had passed through and were helping themselves to their baggage. I also felt insulted that we had to get digital prints of all of our fingers, then have a digital photo taken. The customs agent was an interesting dour type, though, possibly a prison warden, and yet quite polite.

Then came the bother of trying to find the trolley that I presumed would take me to Jamaica Station. It turns out that the "air trains" at the airport take you there. The air trains run along glass hallways that only look like glass hallways, not like platforms, when you walk along them at night (as I did). The darned terminal where I was at did not indicate which train went where; it was only after much to-ing and fro-ing, and thanks to inquiry, that I found another terminal where a sign did tell you that this was the Howard Beach(?)/Jamaica line, and then I had to be careful to step in the Jamaica and not the Howard Beach(?) train.

At Jamaica Station I had to buy tickets at one of a whole row of machines, where an attendant helped me, and then go through the turnstiles, where I managed, I believe, to open the turnstile to my left instead of the one in front of me as intended, and got exasperated until another attendant helped me there. It was rather humiliating, though amusing. It was still awfully hot, by the way. Finding the train that stops at Nostrand Avenue was a pain, too, but I was directed to the Flatbush Ave. line (the right one), by a grey-goateed New Yorker who came up to me as I was helplessly looking at the brochures and asked me, in broad accent, "Are you lawst?" My intentions of not being visibly touristy are evidently fated not to be realized.

After a long while a tremendously long metal train arrived, and we had to go far, far down the platform to the front of it. When I got out at Nostrand Ave., I realized that going to New York on my own is quite possibly one of the stupidest things I have ever done. It was merely a long platform, no information, no anything, on a dark street in a poor neighbourhood of shabby little chicken take-out places and old brick houses and bleak newer housing. I didn't know how to get to the bus station that would take me further. I stopped under a light to take out the notebook where I had scrawled the very insufficient directions, when a black man in his late twenties or so stopped and told me for my own good that I shouldn't take out money on that street (which I wasn't doing anyway, but point taken). He made a determined effort to instill trust in me and to prevent me from being afraid -- which was unnecessary as no matter what he intended specifically he was essentially nice and I was not afraid -- by showing a card with his name on it, asking me to look directly into his eyes, etc. Which sounds very dubious, but was all right in the event. Then he hailed one of the blank white taxis that were cruising through the neighbourhood, but I was dubious about them, especially after having forked over a good deal of money to a driver who had no idea where the intersection where I had to go to was. After stating my determination to get out at the next bus station to wait for a bus and ask the driver for directions, the man who was helping me hastily stepped out, after asking for money as compensation for being "taken out of his environment"; I take this to mean that this neighbourhood was not safe for him.

After waiting for the bus, very glad that the cab driver had let me out of the car, as I was rather worried he wouldn't, in the rain, for many minutes, with the white taxis beeping as they passed to offer their services, I finally went to a cigarette store and asked the two men there if they could call a taxi for me. It turns out that this was probably like asking a plumbing union, on strike, if they know any plumbers who could fix my sink. At any rate, then one of them hailed another inofficial taxi for me, after a charade intended to convince me of its trustworthiness (the shop person asked the cabbie for his number in case he has to take a cab eventually, too). The driver took me to the intersection where the hostel is. I handed over the 8 dollars the driver had asked for; perhaps the price was excessive, but I was so happy at reaching the right place that I let him keep 10 dollars. The driver had the same smirk as one of the cigarette store owners, implying that I was hopelessly dumb, but at that point I simply didn't care; I was not slow to pick up on deception, but unable to tell how to counteract it, and willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. If I was exploited, at least there are three people who are not especially wealthy walking around a little the richer for it. Tant mieux.

The hostel is a modest old building, which appeared in the dark to have no sign indicating its nature at all. It is quite friendly, though not the cleanest. The owner showed me up to bed right away, and I gave up on the idea of showering, changed into my pyjamas, and prepared to sleep. Unfortunately the blanket, though freshly washed like the sheets, had feces or some similar substance on it, but by that point I didn't care at all. I pushed the blanket to the foot of my bed and huddled under my coat instead. It was cold at times, it was hard to go to sleep, and the toothache was worrying away at me as much as ever. As I tossed and turned in the middle of the night, I was wondering if I should give up this trip, find the earliest flight, and return to New York. But I must stay at the hostel at least two nights, an earlier flight would probably cost more, and I still think that returning to Berlin now would mean giving up finding what to do once and for all.

Anyway, it's snowing, and it's daylight, and I feel more cheerful about everything now after e-mailing home and writing this. Besides, some past travelling experiences may not have been more awful but they felt much more awful. It's still an adventure, there are nicer parts of the city to visit, and I want to prove to myself that I can be brave.