Travelogue The Sequel Part. II

"Are you talking to me? I'm the only Donkey Felcher, here!"

"So we flew Delta...why? I guess we never learn our lesson. It's not that the flight crews of Delta that are bad, it's everyone else. The baggage check-in people are indifferent at best and whomever schedules the flights so closely together that they're bound to never run on time, are direct descendants of the Marquis DeSade and Aileen Wurnos."

Um, the Missus has been reading the blog and she pointed out that it wasn't Delta on the way over after all. It's a long story, involving me coming home late and one frying pan to the head, too many. Anyhoo...

We landed in J.F.*. and now the adventure begins, as just finding the Town Car that was sent for us was a big one in itself. American, does you just like Delta does at La G**rdia...except there are no bowels in J.F.*. to negotiate. At La G**rdia, they make you go up and down and up and down. Then through a series of mazes and you pray there isn't a minotaur by the time you get to the baggage carousel.

The American Airlines Domestic area for J.F.*. is much the same, except you go up three stories and down three stories. The baggage carousel is still rather far away, but it's a fairly straight shot. I did see a dude that had very minotaur-like features, though I doubted with the current security situations that he was packing anything, much less a halberd.

The Town Car driver wasn't there with a sign nor was he within the airport property. To be frank, I'll bet he wasn't even in Queens, but I'm just guessing to his whereabouts at the time. There was lot of calling back and forth to the in-laws, the cab company, the in-laws, the cab company, and so on. This exacerbated by the traffic and noise of this place, where you have to shout just to hear yourself think. Don't get me started on the gypsy cabdrivers, that were trying to hustle us for a fare without getting caught.

Finally the cab company tells us to call the driver ("what, you kidding me? Yuri, don't smush package!), as we eye every Town Car that drives by for a sign with our surname on it. He tells us to walk to Pickup Area "B" and we were at Pickup Area "D." So we had to negotiate the luggage carts that were set up like slalom cones and the people that were being herded to the taxi stand.

Imagine five-hundred or more people jammed onto a thin concrete isthmus that had a fence running down the middle of it. That's right, it's Frazetta painting time again and instead of Conan swinging a sword or an axe, you get me, the Missus and Junior swinging luggage at the marauding horde. We finally got there, but how was he to get to us? You have cabs, gypsy cabs, people that were actually there to pick up people, and it's like Midtown at rush hour.

After about forty-five minutes after when we first walked out of the airport's door, there's our driver. At least, we're fairly certain it's our driver. It was hard to tell when he's four lanes away, holding up a sign where our surname is misspelled. Sigh, we haven't sought alternate means of transportation because the Town Car was already paid for, including the tip.

We walked over to the donkey felcher, er Town Car Driver and he was reluctant to open the trunk because this is New York, after all. I told him that he misspelled our name and he said in an entirely too fast manner, that he had nothing to do with it. He didn’t get out to help us with the luggage or open the doors because he didn't want to get a ticket. If you know my temper , you know damn well that I didn't say word one to him, until I had to tell him where the house was.

To his credit, he drove like a demon from hell...probably because he was one. Twenty-four minutes later, we were home. The in-laws fed us well and we went to bed.

"The Judas Search Engine"

The next day, I had to catch up on my emails and finalize the plans for the great Manhattan Blogger Dinner. The thing is, I had to do it on the in-laws computer and while I'm very respectful while I use their Internet access (I wasn't even considering looking at pron. I mean no Weeklies or blogs with tons of cuss words and dirty pictures), there's something on here that makes things more embarrassing than my Internet surfing actually was.

In their tool bar, a search engine randomly grabs words and puts them up there. Sometimes it will place something in there when you copy a sentence and also when you don't want a Catholic household to see something that could be misconstrued out of context, like "Personal Jesus lyrics." I'm surprised that it didn't put the word "motherf*cking" up there when I typed the last post at the In-laws, the f*cking Judas search engine.

So I didn't sleep the first night, with the kind of humidity that makes you use your deodorant eight times a day and take cold showers for several minutes, hypothermia be damned.
Nothing remarkable happened that I could blog about when hanging out with my in-laws other than I'm very proud of nieces and nephews.

Plus, someone has been feeding they dynamite, because they are gigantic. Also I saw my first red ant attack in person at a field near my sister-in-law's house, as they ran across my middle sister-in-law's feet like hungry Delta passengers.

The youngest sister-in-law tried to hijack Tuesday's dinner just like last year, but unlike last year, I told her that we already had plans. I don't blame her, she lives in Jersey and like she said in her own words, no one wants to come to visit us there, because of the distance. So she tries for some of the family's Manhattan time and I'm all right with that, I understand that they get to see the Missus only once a year.

"If I Can't Here, I Can't Eat Anywhere, Francis Albert"

Monday the 9th, found us back in Manhattan and yes, if I can't eat here, I can't eat anywhere. We're talking one of my favorite restaurants, Little Poland in the East Village. We're talking about on one single plate: Stuffed cabbage, bigos, four pierogi, and real kielbasy (the one that is almost like blood sausage). Plus a wonderful spinach soup to start with. The Missus had meat blini and a stuffed cabbage. Procrastinator Junior had a burger and fries because, yes they have American food for kids that are "selective" about what they eat.

"One Foodie Loss And One Gourmet/Hipster Gain"

Our favorite milkshake shop on St. Mark's Place was gone, but right not too far from its former premises was an automat. Yes, they brought back the automat, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiller and though the Wiki has one picture of it, I have four.

Pink, isn't it?

The East Villiage probably has the highest hipster quotient than anywhere else, though they don't seem to be faking it. That, or they're so damn good at faking it that they've fooled this City Boy.

Cauliflower samosas with mango? I love New York!

These poor Russian tourists never knew what hit them...


Мать Бога, спасите нас от этой злой собаки! Aiiieee!

Or, "Mother of God, save us from this evil dog! Aiiieee!"