One of your grandfather's less enviable characteristics is his poor time management. Thursday in New York was a perfect case in point when I foolishly coaxed myself in to believing that it would be quite alright to leave a meeting in midtown Manhattan on Madison Avenue for a 6.15pm flight from JFK airport at 4.30pm. I have done this journey hundreds of times and I know, all-too-well, that this is the beginning of rush hour and it can take over an hour to get there by taxi.
As I left the building where my meeting was being held, armed with my bags, I hit the street only to find there a distinct lack of 'for hire' lights on any of the yellow cabs. I then remembered that this is exactly the time when many cab drivers change shifts and that it can be a scramble to catch one. I saw countless hands waving in the air from competitive New Yorkers who adopt a highly competitive spirit at times like this. I have seen old ladies hit young men over the head with their handbags in order to win the only available taxi at a cross street with dozens running towards it.
That dreadful feeling of fear entered my stomach as I sensed that this was going to be a white knuckle journey to to airport. I crossed the road and made a dash east thinking that I would have a better chance of grabbing a cab on Park Avenue. As I waived my hand in vain (New Yorkers commonly just have their arms outstretched regardless as to whether there are any available cabs approaching), a black town car illegally slowed down, and the driver opened his window asking where I wanted to go. I hate to use these cowboys, but given that time was running away, I asked him how much he wanted for JFK. In spite of my attempts to negotiate, he was only prepared to take me for $100. A yellow cab is only $45. So I turned him down, which was to prove a big mistake.
I made a dash to the Waldorf Astoria in hope that the uniformed porter would find a cab for me. There were seven already in the queue, but I knew that I would be a more attractive punter because I was going to the airport. The porter would get a good tip and a tax driver would get a good fare. It took ten tense minutes to find a cab. When I got in, the joyful Caribbean driver, who was playing loud reggae music, laughed when I told him that I had only 45 minutes max.
Time always seem to accelerate when you are in a hurry. It's as though there's a world conspiracy whereby everyone turns forward their watches and clocks simply to make my life hell. Each time I looked at the time it had moved by an alarming 10 or fifteen minutes.
It was 5pm and we still hadn't crossed the East River and made it to the borough of Queens. We were faced with a decision as to whether to take the 59th Street bridge, which is toll free, or the Tri-Borough bridge with a $4.50 toll. He asked me my preference and I explained that catching my flight was more important that the toll cost. This is a very common discussion between taxi driver and passenger in New York. As it was clear that the 59th Street bridge was hardly moving, I told him to go for the FDR Driveway and across the Tri-Borough, which thankfully was relatively traffic free.
But as we made it across the river the skies opened and the most almighty electric rainstorm came thundering down. It was among the most dramatic I ever seen. On the radio they were forecasting tornadoes on Staten Island which was only a few mile away. The traffic almost ground to a halt and we moved at walking pace for the rest of journey. I arrived at the American Airlines terminal at 6.02pm for my flight. That was 13 minutes before the flight to London was due to leave.
At the check in desk they thought I was crazy to even ask. The agent called the gate only to be told that the door of the aircraft had already been closed. I was move to a flight leaving two hours later which meant I would miss my connection to Prague. I had to be back before the start of Yom Kippur so I was now getting nervous. The agent could not find me a seat on any available seat from London to Prague until the next evening, which would have been a disaster.
My plan was to get through security and up to the business lounge where I could go on line in search of an alternative connective flight. But as I went through security, my original 6.15pm flight appeared on the board as in 'final boarding', so I dashed to the gate. The door had been reopened, in spite of the fact that it was now 6.45pm, and an angel-like agent at the desk was prepared to do what it took to bend the computer system in my favour. She made a couple of calls which resulted in a member of staff who had been put in my seat getting booted out. Finally, I was on board. Although significantly delayed, eventually took off for London over the night skies that had to be clear of thunder before we left. Relief at last.
To those who have travelled with my, they are aware that your grandfather does have the occasionally tendency to shout at uniformed staff as a way of venting his frustrations for running late. It's another one of my less attractive characteristics. Well, on this occasion, I am happy to report that I was polite to everyone. And it was my charm that got me through what appeared to be impossible hurdles. I wonder if I have learned a lesson from this experience.
Grandpa Jonathan
On board American Airlines, flight 100, JFK-LHR
