Why do I say stuff like that in my head? Have I not learned in my long years of travel that Murphy's Law doubles when travelling? So here I am, with a full 90 minutes to find my gate, board, and be bored--what's a girl to do? Sit and eat her sushi, that's what. (Hah. Take that, airport-tax fiends!) I head for an empty gate to wait out the time.

A very empty gate. Lonely. Vacant.

This began to worry me as I people-watched, Caramel Pirate's Booty in hand. Some other lost soul asked me about the flight, which I start to truly worry about; then he flagged down an employee who haughtily informed us that we were at another gate. On another concourse. AHHHHHH!!! I stalk quickly to the other concourse, bags thwumping my legs and my coat slithering off my arm. I arrive breathless and walk directly onto the plane, finding myself next to a large Jersite who hogged the armrest.

I'm still bewildered as we take off--the new policy at the airport allows you to check yourself in and print your boarding pass ahead of security, which means the gate change happened less than 90 minutes before the flight left--how was I to know without signs? Without annoucements? It's all mystifying...and to take my mind off it, I haul 'ole Charlotte Gray out of my bag and finish her off. I've been waiting for her to either die or return home to the heathered Highlands for about 100 pages, but I have a policy about finishing a book which means I gave up on the lyrical passages regarding France and the Occupation and skimmed the dialogue. As we're given our 15-minute landing notice, I'm silently cheering as she returns to London and her flat and reports and then is *done*. The last page turned, I slam it shut, flip it into the back of the seat in front of me, and am ready to land.

The longest part of a flight, I've determined, is the time after landing and before debarking. Sitting on the tarmac for 40 minutes is just wrong, I don't care what you tell me about rush-hour and the flight tower having it under control...that's just wrong.

Look--Newark airport. Just like the last time I was here, only this time there's an entire gaggle of girls on their way to a dance/cheer/spirit competition, patient parents in tow. I head for Penn Station to find Georgette; where we squeel and giggle and laugh when we meet at H&M. Then, the adventure begins: us finding our way to Dyckman St. to stay with friends. Man, they live far away!

Saturday, La Boheme dominated the day. The entire reason for the trip was for me to drool over 2 hours of Bazarific genius, and it was worth every penny. What can I say? I know what I like...and I liked this and highly recommend it. We had started the day at H&M to find Georgette pants (don't ask) and then we had to go back for some *real* shopping...which proved to me once again that if I find something I like, I need just buy it, impulse-buying be damned. Not too surprisingly--no cute scarf by the third visit. Damn. After wandering Times Square some more, we head down to the West Village to negate all the class and highbrow art we had just experienced, since we are going to see the staged version of Debby Does Dallas. One of our hosts works in the box office for it and comped us tickets. It had Georgette and I laughing hysterically, giggling, snorting, and basically gasping for breath. The worst part? The songs, now stuck in our heads. Seriously--it's a musical. If this is what it takes to get the red-blooded American male to the (musical) theater, then so be it.

Home after dinner to crawl into bed, where we found ourselves front-row attendees to a houseparty upstairs, the sound from which deafened and deadened us. The level of noise rivalled a club's volume, but since it was coming thru the ceiling I can't imagine how loud it was up there...but the ultimate insult was the choice in music. I've never, ever heard such bad hip-hop dance-wannabe crap. It didn't improve with repeated listenings, either. For 3 hours we endured this, with anger, rage, and finally whimpers of defeat. At 3a, it miraculously became a faint droning. We didn't believe it at first because this had happened before--it would stop for about 5 minutes, and then they'd notice and hit 'play' again. But 3a must have been magical, because they quit...

At 8a, I groggily realized that the pounding was coming from outside my skull. It was the pitter-patter of little feet stomping on the floor upstairs. EIGHT a.m. What's wrong with these people?

We found out later than one of our hostesses went upstairs to say something--I don't know if it was the jammies or the murderous rage in her eyes but they complied. After pouring coffee into Georgette, we head to SoHo for a round of wandering and shopping, where we found lots to buy and nothing to own. But then... Yellow Rat Bastard, which just rocked. It's less about the store and more the name, but that's not the point. It's just funny. Say the name a couple of times; I think you'll agree.

Dinner at Chola with Georgette's family friends was out of this world. Such great Indian food... so, so good. A brisk walk back from 60th & Lex to Columbus Circle, passing all the fancy-schmancy stores and looking down the avenues as we passed. (Look, Times Square. Look, it's 7th. Look--Broadway. AGAIN.) Slap-happy? Hell yeah. We are stuffed with Indian food, and have cupcakes courtesy of The Magnolia Bakery awaiting us at home. It was gastronomic heaven.

The perfect ending to the day: real sleep. Walking outside for 2 days takes a lot out of a girl! I was sad to leave the next morning, but headed back to the airport and then home knowing that I'd return.

C'mon. I need to experience it when it's warmer out!

~~~~~

OF course I left some stuff out, like the psychotic cat named Puppy who attacks any thing at any time with hissing and biting and no provocation; the crazy money-eating Metro-card machines; the Starbucks tour we took as we thawed our way around the city; the dripping ceiling that made it a Cirque-worthy act just to use the toilet; the *crazy* people on the trains (and I thought we had some crazy people here); and last but not least, how much I love to visit a new place and be a visitor, not a tourist.

I'm glad to be home...but I'm ready to travel again. Sailing season can't come too soon for me!