Looking back to my travel on 8/27, I am in JFK airport, having completed a ~90 minute subway journey from the East Village. Beginning at the end. A group of half a dozen muslims kneel in evening prayer by a wall, facing mecca. A small bow to one in thanks. I walk around the corner to finish my drink before heading through security. I meet a family and mention that they had better chug their drink. The man says something I don’t understand, then tells me he was speaking to me in Hebrew. I don’t speak it (apologies to the ancestors), but wish him a good sabbath. I sit against the wall with my drink. Weeping quietly. A worker approaches me and asks if I am using a nearby cart. I begin walking in the direction of security, and notice a couple of women having difficulty at the counter. They are flying to Santiago. Both of them are very short. I am now a giant. I manage to assist them with translation, as the ticket agent doesn’t know Spanish. I explain that the seats are one behind the other, somehow they get it, but then I make a critical translator mistake. The agent tells me that they can change their seats if they pay more. I did not translate this, but only explained to them that the seats were sufficiente, one in front of the other. I feel bad about this later, but it seems like the thing to do at the time.
This is New York.
This is the first in a series of posts describing my week in Long Island at Robert Fripp’s Guitar Circle.