NYC Pride Notes

June 22 2023 1:25pm  Thursday.

Last fall, Mark said that I kept saying how Eugene Pride was unfulfilling and that I should just go to Pride in New York City—so here I am!  In the air and flying to NYC Pride!  I took a disco nap last night from about 8pm to 1am, but kept waking up so I'm not sure how much rest I got.  I kissed Mark goodbye, left Eugene at 2 am, and drove to PDX.  I'm traveling by myself.  

The shuttle buss was crowded. I got through security quickly and made it to my gate around 5am or earlier.  The plane was full.  Somewhere over Minnesota, I got a migraine aura, but it lasted only about an hour.  I'm guessed whacky sleep and a change in caffeine intake was to blame.  I figured I could see well enough to be able to navigate NYC MTA.

LGL will be hosting me, and there are several events planned.  We were going to attend a "Gay Mass" outside of the Stonewall Inn, which is a National Monument, but the National Park Service closed the park citing security concerns, so the mass has moved to LGL's church, St. Paul (Out At Saint Paul is an LGBTQAI+ ministry).

At some point we may go for drinks at the Eagle.  Mark said he thought that it was funny that we're going to a leather bar, and I'm wondered how much it might bother him. (He siad it didn't, but he kepts bringing it up).  We'll also visit the Stonewall and probably Flaming Saddles in addition to some shows and Sunday Pride Events. 

I'm wanting to go to the Brooklyn Museum's Egyptian Wing one day, and if we run out of Gay Things To Do, I brought my NYC Gargoyle book.  We'll also visit Mary Dwyer in Suffern (probably on Saturday, and it's possible we'll run into The Child there).

Thursday evening's Gay Mass was the first Catholic Mass I've been to.  I was able to fall into the ritual from my Episcopal upbringing, but every now and then there were changes in the wording (things like, "and with thy spirit" vs. "and also with you," and "with all the angels and archangels" vs. "with all the angels and saints"). The closest religious events to the mass that I've attended would be Radical Faerie ritual circles back in the nineties, and they're really not that close. 

As I was sitting out in the pews during communion, my eye kept returning to the Matthew 6:7 verse about not being like babbling Pagans in the service flyer, which could have been more ecumenical, but I was able to reinterpret it to "don't be ostentatious in your religious practice." 

I was surprised when the sermon turned into an interactive discussion about pride and how some folks equated it with value, or strength, or self-worth.  I'm amazed at how LGL and the others at the mass operate at the intersection of their Catholic faith and their LGBTQAI+ orientation.  

After the mass's social mingling, LGL and I went to one of his favorite bars for dinner and drinks (LGL is a networker and is on a first-name basis with practically everyone) and had a brief discussion of the effects of a transcendent God compared to immanent deity on the manifestation of the praxis of Pride vis-a-vis community vs family household.  What I had seen in the church was a community coming together for shared worship; my sense with gay Pagans is that they move in together.

We also talked about bunting in our respective cities.

June 23 - Friday - 2023

"That moment when your morning tarot card pull for NYC Pride adventures is the two of wands, reversed. I think this might be about jet lag…."

LGL had to work, and I was left to my own devices.  I had breakfast at Old John's (cue music, "No one DINES like Old John, or RECLINES like Old John, no one interlocks forks by their TINES like Old John...").  The breakfast was hearty -- although I did have to fish out a red pepper!-- and the waitress thought my pride flag shirt was cute (and called me "sweetie," which, according to LGL, is her standard modus operandi).

Wandering west of Central Park, I tried to find Eden Dragon House, but missed it (three blocks too north).  I meandered through Central Park.  It was raining, and with no sun I got turned around and ended up using Google Maps to navigate the curving paths to Fifth Avenue.

Somehow, I wound up in the Egyptian Wing of the MET. (Sticker shock on the ticket prices, which have gone up substantially since I was here last.)  Once I got into the Egyptian Wing, I tried photographing new things, but found myself re-imaging old favorites.  I did manage an image of a hippo on an ostracon for Mark.  Between photographs I had fun being an informal docent with hieroglyphs, especially with the offering prayer.  Alas, the Middle Eastern Wing was closed for renovations, and the Rooftop Garden was closed by the rain; so no art or photographs from there (except for a long-distance shot of the rooftop from outside as I was leaving).  

I got turned around in Central Park again as I returned to LGL's, but I managed to photograph Bethesda Park and gargoyles, grotesques, and decorative buildings.

Aside from wearing a Pride Progress Flag t-shirt, the day wasn't particularly gay.  I suppose one could argue Queen Hatshepsut was in drag when she wore a Pharaoh's beard, but it would be a real stretch.  

Back at LGL's, I took a disco nap, snacked, and had tea.  LGL returned later than he wanted to, but also took a disco nap for tonight's Stonewall Celebration at Hudson Yards and visit to The Eagle. 

The Stonewall Celebration was one part gala celebration, one part Word From Our Corporate Sponsors, and one part concert.  LGL (who knows everyone) managed to get us into a VIP section about forty feet the main stage.  We connected up with other folks from LGL's office. The pacing was a little odd in that a performer would get the crowd pumped to dance, and then the Vice-President of So-and-so Company would come out and make a short speech about Acceptance and Love.

Many people referenced recent legislation to ban or erase drag and trans folks, and urged the crowd "Don't fight back, fight forward!" The most moving performance was a trans activist who created a sound-scape around the sung phrase, "I'm ev'ry woman" and then read the names of trans victims murdered within the last year.  

The most professional performance was by Netta Barzilai, an Eurovision performer from Israel. The sound system had issues the entire event; these were not helped when Netta choreographed her sound box off of her outfit and couldn't re-connect to the stage's speakers.  She kept on dancing and singing as loudly as she could and during the dance bridge danced off stage and pulled a sound engineer back with her to get re-hooked up—smiling and dancing all the time.  

The most fun performance was BETTY.  LGL was familiar with them.  They struck me as an edgier, Rock-n-Rollier, New York City version of Seattle's 90's folk trio, We Three.  They started out with a Pride Anthem, then transitioned into a saucy song, "Did You Tell Her?"  

By this time my hair had become a minor personality on the event's jumbotron, and apparently was visible from the stage.  When we met BETTY after the event, one of them said they'd noticed my energy from the stage, and another one wondered if we'd met before (LGL quipped that they'd mistaken me for one of the sound engineers, who also had long grey locks (although his were tied back)).

Christina Aguilera came out last and performed three songs.  The weirdest part of the show happened:  about every other person held up their mobile phone up to video the performance, so it was like a forest of techno-trees sprouted up in front of us.  They cranked up the sound system for her, and I was glad that I'd brought along some concert earplugs.  She has a nice voice, but everything was so loud and distorted that I really couldn't follow the lyrics. 

By the time the event was finished and we'd gotten a selfie with BETTY, I was starving, so we found a place to eat nearby (where my hair got asked out for a date).  

On reflection, I realized that a lot of local talent had participated in the show, and that this was one difference between NYC Pride and Eugene Pride:  NYC can support a community of professional and semi-professional singers, dancers, poets, DJ's, photographers, and videographers; most of presenters and performers at Eugene are earnest and having fun—which is fine but does contribute to a "bake sale and craft fair (and group therapy)" feel of local events.  Then we were off to The Eagle.

We opened the place up; apparently on Friday nights they don't open until 10 PM.  There used to be a stricter dress code (or is that undress code?), but they've relaxed it, so wearing jeans and T-shirts (and a leather cuff) were sufficient to get in.  There was some sticker shock at the evening's cover, but we paid it and made our way up to the rooftop part of the bar.  I ordered a margarita, and LGL and I sat back and enjoyed the skyline and the scenery.  Most of the guys were dressed like we were, with about a third (?or a fifth?)—mostly the staff—dressed in more scanty scraps of leather or shirtless (honestly, I saw more leather harnesses, jock-straps, and booty-shorts in the Sunday Pride Parade than I did in the bar).  

What I enjoyed about The Eagle was that it was mostly men, and the crowd seemed to be in their 30's or older.  You didn't need to be a gym stud with eight-pack abs to dance or socialize.  The music was something one could dance to, and I did.  (My hair got some more date offers.)  This was a nice change from trying to dance to arrhythmic soundscapes of high-pitched beeps and water being poured into a pitcher with 20-something, half-stoned Eugene kids in a mixed-use space (or not-dancing because a cos-playing person is lip-synching and wiggling for tips on the dance floor).  According to LGL, the place, especially one particular corner on the second floor, would become raunchier as the night progressed, and he pulled me off of the dance floor around 12:30.

We grabbed some matches from the bar as a souvenir for Mark and left.

Saturday, June 24, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the four of pentacles reversed. This is what happens when one is discussing the previous evening’s bar tab when pulling a card…"

LGL had some business in Suffern, and so I visited my mother-in-law, Mary Dwyer, and other available residents of Dwyer Manse.  There was some cognitive dissonance running into The Child, who had flown to the east coast with his mom, and who was on the East Coast Relative Circuit.  Mary looked good, and I filled her in on Gay Adventures so far.

Back in The City, we visited the Brooklyn Art Museum Egyptian Wing.  LGL was tolerant of my propensity to lecture on hieroglyphs and the Egyptian Netherworld Books as we rode the MTA to the museum.

When we entered, we ran into a sound check for a wedding taking place there in the evening.  The last time I visited, for about twenty minutes over a decade ago, I remember a long, dark room, and a silver ibis.  The galleries were different from my memories: more broken up and much lighter.  I was expecting larger statuary than the MET's, which wasn't really the case.  The galleries did not seem to be organized chronologically, and I was not able to discern any themes to how they were ordered.

There was a lot of new artifacts to see.  I was particularly drawn to the Cartonnage of Nespanetjerenpare (3rd Intermediate Period, D 22). What strikes me about this image of Re is that it is ram-headed instead of falcon headed, indicating that this is Re at sunset; and also the green, orange, and black coloring—which I'm guessing may have associations with the rejuvenating properties of the netherworld.

LGL was drawn to a mummy portrait of an Egypto-Roman man.  I'd say the Brooklyn's Egyptian collection is smaller than the MET's, with finer quality Ptolomeic pieces.  

After the museum, we went bar hopping, first to Flaming Saddles (cowboys dancing on the bar!) and The Dickens (loosely based on Charles Dickens).  Both bars were crowded, and the crowds were both younger and more mixed.  And loud.  The music was slower, and the young folks who were at The Dickens at times felt like they were there more to sing along with the songs and enact them as a mini-performance for their posse of friends (and splash their drinks onto the dance floor) than to dance to the music en mass.  

Looking back on the night, I have to say that I appreciate spaces that are enclaves for men—the local Eugene LGBTQAI+ bar hosts a lot of all-family, drag, and trans events—but does not host a "men's night" other than a monthly "bear mixer," and I'm not even sure it's a dance event, unlike their "Lesbian Dance Party."

"That 4:38 a.m. Pride Moment when you realize (too late) that your response to “I thought Jesus was in the (gay) bar!” should be either “Come, and I shall make you fishers of men!” Or “Pick up the receiver / I’ll make you a believer.”"

Sunday, June 25, 2023

"Today’s Pride March tarot card is the four of wands reversed. Celebration in the City! Which is fun, but it’s not my home. (Pause to miss my husband… okay, put on the sunscreen and the dance tunes!)"

After a hearty breakfast at LGL's, we made our way to the NYC Pride.  LGL had once again secured access to a VIP area, and we found ourselves at the shaded review stand near 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, with access to snacks and drinks, watching politicians queue up to begin the parade.  

I took a lot of photographs of grand marshals, and floats, and marchers, and rainbow everything.  Everyone, from Girl Scouts, to people of all races, to politicians and TV stars, to folks in their eighties, to cheerleaders, and all sorts of corporate sponsors, queued up to start their march.

When LGL's workplace's group came by, we left the review stand and joined in.  Initially, I felt like I stood out because A) I was wearing a grey T-shirt with a progress pride flag graphic on it and everyone else was wearing their corporate white T-shirts, B) everyone but me had some kind of flag to wave, and C) My Hair.  But I chanted, "Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist" to myself and marched along Fifth Avenue with everyone.

After a few moments, LGL (and a work friend, C), said, "C'mon! We're going to get on the float!"  The next thing I knew I was dancing to some really good music and waving at, encouraging to dance, and making eye contact with what seemed like half of New York City as they stood along the sidewalk, or leaned out of windows, or watched from fire escapes. Most people smiled and waved back, and some even started dancing to the music.

At one point it seemed like we were floating down a river of dancing rainbow flags, faces, and sparkles.  I said to someone, "Man, I wish my husband was here."  And then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and added, "Nah; he'd hate this.  And I'd want to smooch him, but he'd want space or to go on a hike."  And it was true, Mark would have been bored after about a half-hour.

I did not have a good sense of where we were; the parade proceeded south on 5th Avenue before heading west on 8th Street. I had to look this up later:  After crossing over 6th Avenue, the parade continued on Christopher Street and passed the Stonewall National Monument (which didn't register with me as the Stonewall when we passed it). It turned north on 7th Avenue, passing the New York City AIDS Memorial (which must have been on the other side of the float), and ended up at 16th Street and 7th Avenue.

We hopped off of the float and started walking and searching for a place to have a late lunch.  Someone from LGL's work was wearing huge white angel wings and waving a pride flag, and they graciously agreed to a selfie.  

While we were waiting for food (and drinks) with LGL's co-workers, I realized that underneath the smiling and waving and dancing, I'd unconsciously been looking for Mark in the crowds, and how wonderful it would have been if at some point the crowds could have parted and Mark could walk out onto Fifth Avenue and joined me on the float.

Monday Morning, June 26, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the Seven of Wands, reversed. Taking the long view, this could signify being beaten down by institutional homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the various -isms. Or, short view, it could be about travel anxiety."

I escorted LGL to the local MTA station on 77th Street and then went for another breakfast at Old John's.  I spent the morning wandering around the 78th Street and Amsterdam area photographing gargoyles, grotesques, and dragons.  I got caught in a thunderstorm, and was glad for an umbrella.  I found what I call "The Dragons of Library Eden House," which was half under renovation scaffolding, so I was only able to take limited photographs of the dragons there.

  

5:49pm Monday, June 26, 2023

I waited for the flight out of JFK to PDX and wrote in my Book of Art.  I probably could have left LGL's apartment an hour later, but that wouldn't have left any time for train mishaps.  Luckily, taking the 1 MTA train to Penn Station, and then the Babylon Train to Jamaica Station and then the Air Train to Terminal 4 went smoothly.

LGL was worried that the thunderstorms today might make air (and train) travel extra tricky, but at 6 PM everything appeared to be on time.

Ha! LGL was right!  First my flight was delayed 90 minutes while we waited for flight attendants from other delayed flights to board the plane (which was sitting at the gate, empty).  Then, after we boarded, we taxied around on the runways while the pilots negotiated a flightpath with air control, then we parked on the tarmac, then we returned to the gate because the whole airport was shut down, and finally the flight was cancelled around 11:20.

"That NYC Pride Moment when Delta cancels your flight home, and your Wonderful Gay Husband manages to remotely find a space for you at The Box House Motel."

I took a crazy midnight taxi ride through the rain to the motel; the driver didn't know where the motel was, and navigated there with his cell phone.  The mobile's map app sent us the long way, and I  ended up paying the fare in cash to knock off $15 of what was still a steep price.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

"And today’s post-air-flight-cancellation tarot card is the three of wands. For some reason what sprang to my mind was gratitude… although I am wondering if the merchant in the card is wishing they were on one of the ships in the distance."

Hunkered down in a (expensive!) boutique hotel, The Box House Motel, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  It was the only place with a room (the JFK Hilton had all of their rooms booked by other stranded travelers).  Between having fun in NYC with LGL and the room deposit for The Box House, my credit card was maxed out (this is my reward for setting my credit limit to a low amount as a preemptive method to manage credit card debt), and so I spent over an hour on the phone with the credit union to try to extend my credit and secure lodging through Thursday.

The Box House Motel had an artsy lobby with a sixties art-deco and colored glass pane feel.  Magnolia or cedar scented the air--it was not unpleasant, but strong.  Pop/swing ballads dominated the sound system--this made the open design of the space more private, but also made conversations difficult. 

I'm grabbed a (expensive!) burger at The Eagle Trading Company, a kind of indoor/outdoor cafe with glass garage doors. The clientele looked like local neighborhood folks; lots of dog walkers, mixed ages, and mostly dudes.  I asked the wait staff about place to walk (and not walk) and they said the neighborhood was a safe one.

After waiting four hours for a call back which never came, I finally managed to connect with a bank person and get my credit card straightened out.  It's was a huge relief; it's crazy how food and travel are dependent on credit-card connected apps on my iPhone.  I'd would have been in a really bad place if my iPhone (or credit card) stopped working.  

Tuesday evening:  There was only one working laundry machine in the laundry room.  I gave up on laundry for the moment and walked to the Greenleaf Cafe, where I found a bench supported by two stone griffins!  Then the music switched from sort of tribal-fusion to 70's Rock (oh well).  The Cafes and hotels here all seemed to be converted garages:  high roofs and glass garage doors, so I am imagined that rooms and houses and buildings that I write should have a history--the farmhouse with added rooms, or old carriage houses turned into living quarters, or old engine sheds turned into garages and then turned into cafes. 

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

"Today’s Post-Pride-Still-Waiting-For-Tomorrow’s-Flight Tarot Card is the Knight of Swords reversed. This is my usual significator card, so I’m interpreting it as a warning to stay focused and be aware that I’m tired of not being home yet."

I had recovered from bank negotiations and goofy non-travel sleep that I had enough energy to go on a photo safari of Mid-Manhattan.  The nearest MTA stop to the Box House Motel was about a 10 minute walk over a bridge spanning a small river (the Pulaski, which fed into the Harlem River).

Once I was on the MTA 7 train, it was a one-stop trip to Grand Central Terminal, where I photographed the building details, especially the twined dragons.  While traipsing about trying to find them, I wandered into a jewelry store, and the next thing I knew, I was helping my New Best Friend, Mars, pick out a tiger-eye bracelet.  She (or maybe they) gave me their email so I could share a link to Google photos of GCT.

Outside the station, I met a Venezuelan couple who were a little lost; I tried to help them, but we had no common language... I couldn't get a translation app on my phone, and felt inept.  In the end I could only wish them good luck.

From there it was more photos of the terminal and then Rockefeller Center.  Prometheus' courtyard was surrounded on all sides by rainbow flags. And somehow I wandered into a La Madison du Chocolat.

After more wandering and photography and a cloudburst and I finally exhausted my camera's battery.  This was probably a good thing, as I managed to get back to the motel before five o'clock rush-hour trains.

Thursday, June 29, 2023

"That Post-Pride moment when you’re about to embark to JFK. No tarot card pull today, although I am envisioning the eight of wands for a completed travel and arrows of love."

Thursday morning; I had to leave the motel at 5 a.m. so I could be at JFK at 6 a.m. so I could be ready for my 8 a.m. flight.  At the airport, I bumped into an information desk where the attendant was giving away little rainbow ribbons; I ended up pinning it to my camera's pack.  My departure gate was in a sixties-industrial concourse that could only be reached by bus, so I lingered a while in the nicer main concourse.  

The floating time during the three days waiting for my Thursday flight was a contrast between the scheduled time with LGL.  Instead of having a guide and host, I was on my own; instead of having scheduled Pride events to be at, I had unscheduled tourist events.  

NYC Pride was fun and great and I managed to experience it from a place of privilege.  Marching was fun, and dancing and waving to folks from a float was fabulous.  

The only thing I'd change—aside from not having my return flight cancelled—would be the bars and venues to something where conversations could be had (all the bars and places we went to had really loud music, which made understanding folks next to impossible).

In contrasting and comparing NYC Pride with EUG Pride, I'm reminded that NYC has massive corporate sponsorship, and EUG has maybe city sponsorship.  Also NYC has a larger and more diverse community, and can have groups like the Sirens (Dykes on Bikes), and The Eagle, and Gay Water Polo Players, and Education Centers, and Latina/Latino and transgender and gay parent groups.  Eugene pride is smaller, with folks like the Unitarian Church, and Spectrum Bar—but the three community pools:  Eugene, Springfield, and the University of Oregon, don't always speak to each other.

I suppose that I need to go to PDX for Gay Dancing with Gay Men over 35.

And volunteer more.

Unseasoned Traveller Moments

We woke early.  The previous night we'd packed before we went to bed.  

We picked up The Child at Mark's Mom's house, and said goodbye to everyone.  

After we dropped off the car, Mark decided that The Child needed to navigate to our gate as practice for future solo air-trips.  He did fairly well getting us to the air train and the TSA Pre-check line.  I think we might need to work on reading signs, but I could be projecting my own inadequacies onto the situation.  

Several unseasoned traveller moments later we were boarding the plane.  We were the next-to-last folks to get onto the plane, with the result that all of the overhead bins had been inexpertly packed with Other People's Stray Items That Should Have Fit Under Seats.  The Child's carry-on had to be checked in on the concorse.  My carry-on started to be checked-in, but the flight attendent found some spare space in first class; then she forgot to tell me where my luggage was and I had to make inquiries.

There were a lot of families travelling with a lot of kids.  Large families.  And at least two Very Angry Babies.  I was surprised by how irritated I was -- I don't know if it was luggage arrangement, or the child behind me kicking my chair seat, or the random shrieks, or not getting enough sleep, or Covid anxiety, or a general combination of airplane travel anxiety -- I had to keep reminding myself that travelling with kids is hard and that I should thank The Child for being a good travel companion for so many years.  

I put in my (battery depleted) ear buds and cat napped for as long as the seat would let me.  

The Child had the window seat, but I did manage to take a photo of Mt. Hood as we were flying into Portland.  I know that it's late August, but Mt. Hood was looking brown and dried out as we passed it.  Ursula LeGuin had a prescient vision of Mt. Hood when she wrote "The Lathe of Heaven" nearly fifty years ago.  The haze smudging the other mountains and filling in the valleys was a sad reminder that forest fires were still burning and hadn't magically gone out while we were away.  I thought it had rained while were were on the East Coast, but I guess it hadn't.

We survived baggage claim, located the car, and I drove us south and home.  

Mark had promised The Child that we would stop about halfway home to get food at In-N-Out.  It should have been called "In-An-Hour," because from the time we entered the driveway to the time we received our food, it took us 70 minutes.  The food was fine, but I think I would have ordered ahead (not, judging by the line of foot-traffic folks, that it would have helped).

Probably the funniest thing about the wait was a discussion of 90's gay club music:  I complained that at one point, dance music devolved into a series of frantic boops with no melody, designed to tickle the limbic brains of dancers who required an extra hit to their limbic brains in order to dance.  "Explorer," by Clubroot was playing at the time, and I snorted because I realized it was only slightly more refined than the frantic boops of the '90's (but it at least pretends to have a melody).  

"It's your kind of boops," The Child said.

This led to a discussion of how most dance music in the 90's wanted to be Darude's "Sandstorm" and the realization that The Child was really into "Sandstorm" because it was good for gaming to.

We got home at 7 PM and fed cats who were grateful that we did not have the dog with us.

That was the next day.

Flying to Suffern

Mark and I flew to his Mother's home in Suffern, New York.  The Child had gone a week prior, on Mark's Birthday, and we had a week alone at home, doing what most parents do when their child goes away on a week-long vacation:  we slept a lot.  Okay, and other things.  

Normally, we visit Mark's family about once a year.  Frequently, there's a family gathering of some sort that involves the brother from Virginia, and the sister from Pennsylvania, and occasionally the other brother from Buffalo converging on Mark's Mother's House.  Mark's Mother is a Great-Grandmother, and it is not uncommon for grand-children and their families to vist, too.  

Covid put the kibosh on travel last year, and various health issues dictated a smaller gathering this time around.

The morning of our travels, Mark took Aoife to Doggy Daycare.  She knew something was up -- probably from the suitcases -- because early that morning, she crawled into my lap and pressed herself against me.  Mark reported that she uttered a Dolorous Cry when he drove away, leaving her in the care of the Doggy Daycare Ladies.  

The cats were delighted that we were leaving. 

When we got to the Portland Airport, it looked like everyone in Oregon had decided to get one last flight in, despite the Covid Delta Varient going around.  The signs to the parking lot lied when they said there were spaces available, and it was only after a lengthy search and some creative decision-making processes on Mark's part that we were able to locate an empty spot the car would fit in.  

Luckily, we'd left in plenty of time. 

The terminal was packed.  An ocean of travellers serpentined through the security check line.  Social distancing was a joke.   Mark had anticipated this situation, and we managed to expedite the TSA lines by going through pre-check.  It was like a Disney Fastpass; we sailed through empty lanes up to the check point and were through it in about five minutes.  Considering how much my cary-on baggage's strap was biting into my shoulder, I am very grateful Mark had the foresight and we had the means to arrange dodging the non-socially-distanced masses.

The flight was mostly uneventful.   

I had a window seat -- it's always interesting to me to see the calligraphy of the canyons in the mid-west, the exclamation points of wind turbines, and the regular  patchwork grid of roads once you are flying over Illinois.

Mark sat next to a woman who ordered two beers and a lot of snacks.  The moment of irony was that the very nice flight attendants were forced into tech support and spent ten minutes handling her iPhone so she could connect to the plane's WiFi, activate her credit card on the airline's app, and participate in the contactless payment method for her food and beverages.  Mark double-masked when her first beer spritzed out of the can and onto him.   

Despite all this he managed to get far on his knitted socks.  

The sun set while we were somewhere over Chicago, painting the trailing edges of the wings with red gold.  Later, the full moon rose and turned everything silver.   I was struck by how many times we've been travelling on a full moon; I can can think of three other instances.  Our wedding ceremony seventeen years ago was on a full moon, so this was technically a lunar anniversary.  

As we began our descent, we flew below the cloud deck. 

Tropical Storm Henri threatened to give us a bumpy landing, but our pilot got through it smoothly.   We must have been between storm bands when we landed.

A car rental, a trip through some really heavy rain, and about ninety minutes later, and we were at our hotel room.   I'm pretty sure we fell asleep quickly. 

Wind Down and Travels

I think everyone was tired Sunday.  Various relatives returned for a post-party gathering.  And more bagels.  We visited with folks one last time and then it was time for us to pack and go to the airport.  I’d say this visit we spent more time with the teen and pre-teen set than we did with the adults.

At some point, Mark tried to pack some more books into his carry-on luggage only to find that more items had been mysteriously added;  The Child confessed to packing the FDR Sphinx in Mark’s carry-on because his own luggage was too heavy.  This became a frequent theme as we listened to the canned train depot and airport speeches about not accepting packages from strangers.

The security line stretched on and on and we conga-lined through endless twists and turns of flexible crowd control tape.  I’d have to say that the automated trays you put your carry-on items into was kind of cool and automated.  As I was re-assembling my stuff and donning my apparel, Mark told me security was inspecting his bag.

The guard seemed board and unimpressed as she opened the bag and pawed through it.  Mark was standing next to her, and The Child and I were a short distance away still putting ourselves together.  Various shirts and socks fell to either side of the carry-on until the guard got to a cabbage-sized lump:  FDR Sphinx.

“Oh,” she said tonelessly.  “This is the problem.”

And then she waved Mark through to stow everything back.

We thought it was much more funny than she did.

Our flight was delayed while they changed a tire.  Mark found a good vantage point to see what they were doing and I used my zoom lens to take close-up pictures.  Essentially, after removing a featureless disk of a hub-cap, they used three foot long Allen wrenches to take the lug-nuts off of the faulty wheel and replaced it with a good wheel.   Pretty much how you’d change a car’s wheel, only on a plane.

The flight coming home was more uncomfortable that then one going out:  my seat wouldn’t recline, so sleeping was difficult.  Mark changed seats with me, and I discovered that A) there was practically no leg room and B) the chairs were so flimsy that every time the very large man sitting in front of me heaved forward and then flopped back in an attempt to get comfortable, he’d relocate my knees and wake me up.   So I didn’t get much rest.

Back in Oregon, Mark drove us home.  I stayed awake and made idle chit-chat with him.  After thirteen hours of travel, we arrived through our front door at 1 AM.

The cats were happy to see us.

Early French Bomber Plane

 This is a French plane from (I think) World War One.  It last flew a few years ago at the airfield near Fort Vancouver.  It is a bomber of some sort; I forget how many bombs it could carry (I'm not sure how big the bombs were, or if they were grenades.)

What struck me about it was how much it looked like something out of "Girl Genius."  The wheels were especially interesting with all of their struts and wires.

The propeller was a push-propeller mounted in the back.  I think the engine's radiator is right behind the gunner, and I wondered how hot it got and how someone in the plane would avoid being tossed against it during a bumpy flight.

I'm not sure if it's the black stork on the side, or the general shape of the plane, but it also reminds me of the Nazgul from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

Building Airplanes

Over the Forth of July weekend we went to an aviation museum next to Fort Vancouver.  The coolest fact I learned was that a dirigible flew between Portland and Vancouver in 1905.  It was steered up or down by the pilot leaning backward or forward.  (In contrast, Santos Dumont used a weight and pulley system to change his craft's trim.)

 There was an airplane kit on display.  I remember one of our neighbors back in the 1970's was working on one of these.  I think his was fiberglass; I remember it being much whiter.

The most interesting part was the jig used to make the wing shape.  I'm guessing that the wood was soaked in water before hand to make the curving part.  It occurs to me that one could 3D print this as one solid piece.

Journal and Eclipse Dream

Writing:  weekend sickness threw a wrench into things.  So.  Let's see.  Last night I got a critique of a 5000 word story.  I can't believe some of the stupid clerical mistakes I made in the manuscript, but over all the story was well received.  This morning I remembered dreams, got up at 6AM, and wrote them down.   I've got a 1500 word story that is in Very Rough Draft form; I passed it to a beta reader who gave me some really good feedback.

Work-out:  My last work-out was seven days ago.  Sigh.  It was easier during the summer to go in Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; but lately Friday's schedule has put a kabosh on that.  I guess I'm going to have to start going in the evenings instead of the afternoons.

DREAM:   

I'd say that the majority of this dreaming was sparked by the solar eclipse coming up tomorrow (Thursday), a brief conversation about skydiving post-Wordos, and a discussion about ski trips past and future.  

Eclipse Dream

The recall begins at my parent's house.  It's dark and we're waiting for a lunar eclipse to begin.  There's some worry that the eclipse wont be visible because of light clouds.  We're looking east over the Willamette Valley, and then the clouds shift and there's a really huge moon, almost silvery white.  

As we watch, a black circular shadow passes in front of the moon.  It's too quick and small to be the Earth's umbra.  We  leave the house (I don't recall who was with me).  After a short investigation we discover that what we thought was the moon is really some kind of balloon with a light-show projector slung beneath it.  The "eclipse" is really some sort of college game entertainment.

I think my sister appeared at the moment and says something like, "I didn't think this was the real eclipse." or "I didn't think we'd be able to see the eclipse from the house."   I looked north, and there I saw the real moon, thin and pretty far advanced in the eclipse.  White wispy clouds passed in front of it.  We could see it because we were east of my folks' house, but the people inside would have a nearly impossible time siting the moon.  (In waking life, I'm realizing that the moon was in a part of the sky in the dream that it would never be able to reach).  I remember pointing at the crescent moon.

There's a break in the narrative, and the eclipsing moon is over an ocean at the coast.  A front is moving in, and where the ocean meets the shore, a layer of white clouds forms.  

I can see all this because I'm in an airplane on some sort of special tour, with a bunch of middle-aged (60-something?) ladies (there might be some men).  Mark may have been there, and the pilot was a guy.  The pilot was talking about the eclipse and the clouds, and we started climbing.  

I don't recall exactly what happened next.  Either the plane when into a dive, or the engine stopped working, or else this was a skydive tour.  I'm thinking the latter because we were suddenly in jump suits.   

Insert falling scene here, I guess, because we were on the beach.  I had traveled with my portable Stonehenge, which in the dream had transformed from a circular object into a rectangular track that was somehow a cross between a cribbage board and a mancala board.  In the fall, most of the pegs were lost, only the black descending moon's node peg was still in place.  I remarked on this, and then found a $20 bill in one of the mancala holes.  There were some other small trinkets (not possible to be there on the real board) in the mancala holes... things like novelty coins or Renaissance Fair necklaces and beads.  

There's another break.  I think Smokey the cat woke me up here or something.

I was on a airport or train tram with Mark.  We had parked a white rental van in a large dark parking structure.   A track ran straight through a parking lot that was about a block wide on either side.  I want to say that we parked in lot 184A or something like that (at some point in the dream I wrote the number down on a white sock, which subsequently got washed and the numbers ran).

I've got the sequence of events jumbled.

At some point I fell asleep on the train and woke up with it having passed my stop.

At some point I was in a convoy with Mark and possibly our friends, the Husbands.  I think I was driving a white truck.  I think I took a wrong turn and went a considerable distance the wrong way before another off ramp appeared.  And at some point I was in the back seat and no one was driving the car, and I had to reach over the car seat and press the break pedal with my hand to stop the truck before it went through the intersection.  

I vaguely recall a bunch of us were staying in a guest house or an A-frame chalet.  

I may have been driving the truck through a visitors' center or mall.  And the truck may have turned into me just walking.  

I was in a kind of rustic alpine building.  Lots of cobblestone and dark wood beams.  There was a Saturday Market feel, because every three yards or so, there was someone with a booth selling something (like scarves), or handing out brochures.  There may have been someone like Manfred Fischbeck leading dance hikes.  

Behind a tall counter sat a late 20-something guy with two Siamese cats crouching on either side of him with their eyes closed.  "Are your cats friendly?" I asked.

"Well, give them a try; but they don't like just anyone."

I held up my index finger and presented it to one of the cats, who opened an orange eye and started rubbing its whiskers on it.  The other cat came over and they were rubbing their faces all over my hands.

"Wow, they really like you," the guy said.  "You must have a powerful aura."  He stood up, suddenly tall, and his eyes focused just behind me.  I think he said, "You have a lot of yellow in your aura." I recall he said, "You are lord of fire."

"Fire, huh?" I said, "People usually say I'm air."

For some reason I woke up with the name JJ Keek in my head.  There may be such a person with that name, but I have no idea who they could be.

Heisenberg's Airplane

Thursday, December 19th.  

The Arrival

So there I am, on a flight from Eugene to Newark via Salt Lake City.  Getting up at 3AM wasn't so bad and I'm sort of resting, sort of writing, sort of reading.

And then a 19year old girl behind me started groaning with abdominal pain.  The flight attendants started having a conversation with the girl's mother, and phrases like "I had appendicitis, and it hurt right there," were thrown around.  Then a passenger identified herself as a doctor; after a short series of questions, she said, "It's definitely not appendicitis; you might have an infected kidney or a pulled spinal muscle."  More questions flew back and forth between Mom and Daughter:  "Did you feel this way before we left?  Did you take something for it?"

EMTs in SLC were arranged.   Then the airport closed because of snow and freezing rain.  Then they were going to let us land.  Then there was a cargo plane that skidded off the end of a runway, and they closed again.  Then we were going to circle around.  And around.  And around.  And then we were low on fuel, and got diverted to Provo.

While all this was happening, the doctor wanted to give the 19 year old some Super Advil, but the flight attendants were concerned about medical waivers and then the doctor worried that she'd be delayed and miss her connection.  The flight attendants were also wanting the doctor to use their regular Advil from the airplane's medical kit.

We landed at at Provo, a very small airport that serves Brigham Young University.  We were going to stay in the plane.  By this time the attendance simply gave away all the food supplies they had.  More planes flew in, and they had us deplane.  I had a notion that we wouldn't have to go through airport security, but I found out later that as soon as our feet touched the ground, TSA would have their way with us.

9:51AM:  SLC snowed in & we're refueling in Provo. Expecting delays once we're at SLC.

About two hundred people crammed into the building and sat anywhere they could.  The SLC airport was still closed.  I tentatively suggested to one woman we could all sing Christmas carols and the suggestion was not well received.   I managed to find some outlets and charge up various devices.  Then the airline was sending busses to take us from Provo to SLC.

10:10AM:   SLC closed for 2 hours. May be bussed back to SLC from Provo.

Our luggage eventually appeared in the outside Quonset hut for checked bags.  Newspaper cameramen appeared and started taking pictures of everyone sitting on roll-on suitcases and steps and standing in lines.  There's nothing like a news camera taking pictures of you to make you feel like a refugee.  And folks fleeing in $80 to $100 taxis didn't help.  I decided that I should wait outside for the buses, where the flight attendants were standing, under the drive-up awning.  

While we were waiting outside, someone suggested that I should do a weather dance because I was wearing the grey-green cloak.  I threatened to bring out cutout reindeer and invoke the spirit of Rudolph, but the flight attendants thought that might bring in the wrong kind of weather.  

The first bus pulled up to the awning.  Provo's single airport cop reminded folks to be polite and NOT RUSH THE BUS like some Christmas Apocalypse Zombie Movie.  Then we were on the bus.  I crammed my cary-on into the seat with me and people piled in.  The second bus appeared as ours was pulling out.

Meanwhile, I'm not sure what happened to the 19 year old appendicitis patient and her mother.  I'm not sure if there was a miraculous recovery or if they were whisked away or whatever.

SLC airport is about an hour from the Provo airport.  It was kind of odd to be on a bus full of Eugenians in between Provo and Salt Lake City.  The roads were snowy and icy, and our bus passed at least three accidents where cars had slid around into each other and off of the guardrail.  

We made the airport without incident.  I lost the flight attendants somewhere, but I managed to zip through security and get to the departing gate for my connecting flight.  It had been delayed five hours, so I hadn't missed it and had enough time to find some food.

By this time, I had had some airline cookies, an orange juice, a small Coke, and some peanuts and raisins.  Which meant that I had a raging caffeine withdrawal headache.  I am not looking forward to a post-tea apocalypse.  I staggered to a local looking food bar and before I could speak, the first words out of the cashier's mouth were, "We're out of beef, so you'll have to order chicken."  As I located the chicken menu and placed my order, my thoughts were, "And so it begins:  They're running out of supplies."

The Departures (yes, that's plural)

1:57PM:  In SLC.  My flight is delayed. Expected departure 3PM (in an hour).

As I sat down in the waiting area by the gate, a gate agent got on the PA and announced, "Well, folks, I'm sorry to do this to you, but our plane is at another gate.  We could bring the plane here, but there are no free gates, so it's easier--and quicker--to get you to the plane.  It's a gate B3."  We were at gate C-something.  This was the last of several gate changes that had happened during the day. 

Then they let us on the plane.

3PM:  On the plane. Oy vey, it's like a sauna in here.  Should be taking off soon.

Like clockwork, passengers entered the plane and said, "Oh my God, it's hot in here."  I think it was 85F.  People took off their layers of snow jackets and scarves.  And started to sweat.

3:44PM:  Still on ground in SLC.  Everyone has boarded except the pilots :-(

When we boarded, the gate agent told us there was a crew.  This was not exactly true; there were flight attendants, but no pilots.  So we continued to sit in the 85F airplane on the ground at the gate.  Eventually, the flight attendants passed through the cabin handing out cups and bottled water.  I turned my barf bag into a cat puppet to amuse the one and two-year old children of the Obligatory Mother Traveling Alone.

4:08PM:  Pilots on the ground and in a plane... just not our plane... [they're] waiting for [a] gate.

About this time, I texted Mark (who was traveling with a different airline) not to wait for me in Newark.  The snow and ice not only kept the airplanes on the ground, but effectively kept the ground crews from driving into work.  So there was a shortage of drivers for those little carts that push planes away from the gates.  Which meant there were precious few gates for the planes that were already stacked up from the two hour airport closure earlier.

4:47PM:  Pilots on plane.  Half the passengers forming lynch mob, half just want to leave.  I'm with the half that wants to get a pilot license and fly the plane ourselves.  Door closed, now we wait for de-icing.

The first thing the pilot said when he entered was, "Oh my, folks; it's really hot in here.  We'll turn on the air conditioning and cool you down."  I'm not sure why one needs a pilot's license to crank up a plane's AC, but there you go.

The snow and ice also prevented deliveries of things like cookies, pretzels, peanuts and water.  So the pilots were stalling and doing flight checks waiting for supplies... which never came.  Eventually, the grumblings of the passengers must have been too loud in the cockpit, because we pushed away.

6:01 PM:  SLC just closed the runways while were were waiting to de-ice. Plane heading back to gate.  Passengers riotous.  

The airport closed, and we were waiting for a cart to push us back to an open gate (if any).  Then passengers noticed other planes were taking off.  This caused the pilot to get onto the plane's PA...

6:55PM:  Then one foggy Solstice Eve, the FAA came to say, Rudolf with your nose so bright, you've exceeded your duty cycle tonight.

...with the news that he and his co-pilot had been piloting planes for so long that they had reached the end of their FAA duty cycle, meaning it was no illegal for them to fly the plane.   I think seat-belts probably saved lives that night.

We got back to a gate.  First they told us we could deplane and leave our stuff in the bins, then they changed their minds and told us to take everything off.

So.  When the plane left the first time, the SLC airport computer thought our plane was in the air.  We--and by we I mean the passengers and the gate agents--hadn't quite figured this out.  Our first clue should have been when the gate agent had me draw our flight departure information on a white piece of paper she subsequently taped to the kiosk's departure monitor because our flight information was showing up incorrectly on the boards--wrong gate, wrong time--if it showed up at all.

People started to lose it.  Some clumped together in search of a bar.  An unofficial spokesperson was supported in her venting because she was saying what a lot of people were feeling:  "I'm stressed out; and don't make promises you can't keep, because I'm near the point where I no longer believe anything you say."

Everyone with mobile devices started checking e-mail, the airline's web site, or IMing.
The coolest thing I saw was when a grandma type insisted on playing for a servicewoman's dinner at the local beef-less bar.

I got a sandwich and a salad (which tasted like the expiration date on it was wrong).  Then I went to a little store across the way and purchased Advil and one of those cute little round pillow-donut things so I could actually sleep on the plane without getting too much of a crick in my neck.

At the gate's seating, there was the obligatory person using two outlets for devices that will plug into (and charge each other).  Businessmen tried to game the system.  One woman started surfing the Department of Transportation web site to build a case for a full refund.  And the toddlers sort of played with each other in the seating area where the parents herded together.

After a while some of the passengers, who had been waiting at the gate since the original 10 AM departure time, discovered that their emergency re-bookings had been cancelled by the airline computer when the plane originally left the gate.  They wanted to chuck it and simply take Friday's flight, but since it was now Thursday evening before The Weekend Before Christmas, all the seats had instantly filled.

Our new departure time was 9PM.  Since I didn't have to make a connecting flight, I could afford to be serene about it all and cat nap.

9:44PM:  Still at the gate.  Haven't boarded.  Heisenberg's Airplane should leave at 10:30 (about 35 minutes).

Our new crew was having difficulty driving into the airport.  By this time the departure time had been moved back three times and the passengers were pretty much ready for torches and pitchforks.  OK, there was applause when the last crew member appeared... and then it was time for us to pick up our bags and carry-ons and children and get on the plane.

The first first-class passenger's boarding pass made the boarding pass reader beep in denial.  The gate agent frowned at it, typed something on her keyboard, and waved the first passenger through.  After the third passenger was denied, she started checking us off with a pencil and a printed out passenger manifest.

As we trundled down the ramp, people shouted out fake announcements:  "Oh. Airport's closed; sorry,"  "D'oh.  De-icer's closed; we're turning back."  "Ooop! Reindeer on the runway; we can't leave."

10:32PM:  We've boarded.  Waiting for provisions.  Have pilots and flt attendants.  Betting happening over de-icing and runways.

Once again, we were sitting on the plane and waiting for water and cookies.  There were suggestions to leave without the damn water.   Then the PA clicked on.  "Hello ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot; I'm standing at the front of the plane so you can see that I'm not hiding..."

10:56PM:  The airport computer thinks we already left (because we went out to get de-iced and came back), so now the tower can't schedule us to actually leave (to get de-iced again).

"...the gate agent says that the tower is working on getting us cleared and that should take five minutes, but that was five minutes ago and it still hasn't happened.  I'll let you know when I have more information."

Eventually we did push away from the gate and get de-iced.  Since it was about 11:20 PM, the de-icing was extra theatrical, with lights illuminating the steam and whatever (probably toxic) chemical they sprayed the plane's wings with.

I mostly slept through the flight.

5:28AM:  Getting off plane (doors open soon) not sure which [Newark] terminal...

We all filed off the airplane.  Our flight was officially delayed twelve hours.  I waited for Mark to pick me up near the baggage area.  Occasionally, I would see fellow passengers as they told their horror story to outraged kith and kin.  We'd stop, wave, wish each other happy holidays, and then the stories continued.