Rabbi Ron Hoffberg, who officiated at the Masorti community in Prague where I participated this Yom Kippur, explained that the day is all about love.
I learnt that forgiveness is at the heart of Yom Kippur, and that it is a true measure of love to pardon someone for their misgivings. Essentially, it is on Yom Kippur that God demonstrates his love for us by forgiving us for our sins. This is similar to how a parent will ultimately exonerate their children for their misbehaviour.
Rabbinic teachings never fail to fascinate me. I always seem to learn something new and am often surprised. I've been going to Yom Kippur services for 53 years (well, OK, it's probably 30 or so years during which I've actually listened to what they have to say), and this is the first time I can recall hearing the 'L' word.
Most of my adult life has been spent on occasions like Yom Kippur in a struggle to achieve some spiritual connection. During my teens, I remember deriving some real meaning and satisfaction from prayer. I often find myself watching and admiring your father for reaping so much from his davening. Alas, this is something that has now eluded me for many years. It is not that I don't appreciate or value the act of Jewish prayer. On the contrary, going to schul and participating in a service, no matter how passively, gives me a deep sense of belonging. I get tremendous comfort from the familiarity of it all, and from the knowledge that there are Jews throughout the world doing pretty much the same thing.
I always feel my father when I am at schul. He took me every weel from an extremely early age. I can honestly remember playing with the tzitzit on his tallit, which were at the height of my head. I recall him constantly showing me the place in the book and giving me the occasional explanation or opinion. He was not a religious man, but was a committed and true believer. He enjoyed schul and participating in the services, and I realise how much pleasure he got from being with me. I miss my father, Gerald, so much at this time of year.
While I love my religion for the tremendous sense of belonging that it provides, and for the intellectual stimulus that it offers, I cannot say that I have any adoration for prayer. I do, however, very much like joining in with the familiar tunes, and in following the various rituals. And there's inner warmth that I always feel when part of communal Jewish prayer.
But I couldn't help being somewhat enamoured by the tremendous showmanship of Catholic worship, which was especially brought to my attention when I saw scenes of the visit of Pope Benedict XVI to Britain, which I watched on TV after Yom Kippur. While I profoundly disagree with the conservatism of Catholicism, and in particular the Pope's damaging condemnation of the use of condoms, contraception and abortions, there is nothing wrong with a religious leader spreading positive messages about love and peace.
The Pope's first state visit to the United Kingdom -- a nation which famously split from the Catholic Church in 1534 -- was most impressive. In contrast to public Jewish practice, which often appears so casual and informal, it is hard not to be touched by the immense pageantry and showmanship associated with Catholic ritual. The beautiful cathedrals, magnificent costumes and imposing music cannot fail to catch one's attention. It's not really my cup of tea, because I feel so emotionally attached to Judaism that it would be inconceivable for me to follow in the steps of someone like the great composer, Mahler, who converted from Judaism to Christianity. But I do believe that we Jews could do a better job of attracting those who'd like to be involved but are somehow deterred by the apparent nonchalance of some of our most important religious events.
Although it is hard to think about love on an empty stomach, the absence of food and drink for 25 hours does help to make the day feel very different. While I can’t pretend to enjoy it, Yom Kippur does provide a unique experience in the year. It is an opportunity for me to reflect on the direction in which I am going. I often feel that my life is without a strategy. And it is on this special day that I try to resolve to establish a course for my life. That is something I find very hard. It can be quite a melancholy experience.
The somberness of Yom Kippur is exacerbated for me by the urgent march of autumn, which I always feel so strongly at this time of year. For me, this is the border between summer and autumn when I am in Northern Europe. Going for a walk in between services feels different. Leaves have started to fall and there are horse chestnuts (‘conkers’) on the ground. As one leaves at the end of the service, having heard the shofar sound, there is a distinct chill in the air. While I really love summer, I cannot say the same for autumn or winter, which are far from my favourite times of year. That final ‘tekiah gadola’ represents the final and graceful exit of summer.
My first Yom Kippur as a grandfather provided me with some added impetus to try and make some sense of the valuable gift that we’ve all been given. Seeing you come into the world has reminded me of the incredible richness of life. It is therefore my wish to survive, and maybe even appreciate, many, many more Yom Kippurim so that I may see you enjoy all of the wonders that life will bring for you.
Yes, Yom Kippur always prompts in me that perennial question: What will life bring?
Grandpa Jonathan
Prague, Czech Republic
Saturday, 18 September 2010
Friday, 17 September 2010
Travel woes continue
I finally landed in London to find that all direct flights to Prague were fully booked. If I wanted to be home in Prague before the start of Yom Kippur, the only option was to take two Lufthansa flights, one to Munich and then another on to Prague. In effect, it was going to take me almost a long to get from London to Prague as it did from New York to London. Such is how crazy travel can be.
At least I managed to get about four hours quality sleep on board my trans-Atlantic flight. Beforehand, I was able to have a very pleasant chat with a lovely and most intelligent lady from Hong Kong. She's an environment engineer and works for her small family business. Her name was Phoebe Lam, and I was most amused when the menu was given out and we were asked to select our main course for the dinner service, that Ms, Lam actually chose the lamb!
Your aunt Rachel is always accusing me of talking to everyone. Well, it's true. I do try to engage with people around me. i have to say that it often reaps terrific rewards. People can be so fascinating. Now I have another contact who may become a regular reader of this blog as I told her all abotut you and my daily musings.
I also saw a sweet, romantic film with Vanessa Redgrave called Letters to Juliet which is inspired by Shakeswpear's great love story, Romeo and Juliet and filmed in Verona among other beautiful locations in Italy, a country that I adore.
So with just 90 minutes so spare, I landed at Prague, took a tazi home and rushed off to the synagogue for what is supposed to be a contemplative 25 hours. The opening Kol Nidre always moves me. Its tune never fails to send a shiver down my spine. It was wriiten for the cello by Max Bruch who is also the composer of one of my favourite violin concertos of all time. As I leave for schul, I hope to find some spiritual connection over the following hours.
At least I managed to get about four hours quality sleep on board my trans-Atlantic flight. Beforehand, I was able to have a very pleasant chat with a lovely and most intelligent lady from Hong Kong. She's an environment engineer and works for her small family business. Her name was Phoebe Lam, and I was most amused when the menu was given out and we were asked to select our main course for the dinner service, that Ms, Lam actually chose the lamb!
Your aunt Rachel is always accusing me of talking to everyone. Well, it's true. I do try to engage with people around me. i have to say that it often reaps terrific rewards. People can be so fascinating. Now I have another contact who may become a regular reader of this blog as I told her all abotut you and my daily musings.
I also saw a sweet, romantic film with Vanessa Redgrave called Letters to Juliet which is inspired by Shakeswpear's great love story, Romeo and Juliet and filmed in Verona among other beautiful locations in Italy, a country that I adore.
So with just 90 minutes so spare, I landed at Prague, took a tazi home and rushed off to the synagogue for what is supposed to be a contemplative 25 hours. The opening Kol Nidre always moves me. Its tune never fails to send a shiver down my spine. It was wriiten for the cello by Max Bruch who is also the composer of one of my favourite violin concertos of all time. As I leave for schul, I hope to find some spiritual connection over the following hours.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Travel tension
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
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
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Fashion Week in New York
Your grandfather is electrified. I've arrived in Manhattan and am immediately invigorated. This is without any shadow of a doubt the most fantastic city on earth.
I adore this place so much that, if I could, I would wrap my arms around it and hug it so tightly. I could not possibly overstate my complete adoration for my beloved New York.
It's a warm evening and the streets are buzzing with people. I'm staying at the Doubletree Hotel on Lexington Avenuen which was formerly the Metropole Hotel. It was on the sidewalk (or pavement depending on which language you speak) outside of this establishment the Marilyn Monroe, the iconic actress who committed suicide in the sixties, posed for that famous photo with the wind blowing from the subway vent to raise her dress, while she kind of helplessly tries to stop it showing too much of her thighs.
As I left the hotel in pursuit of a nearby restaurant on East 51st street, I walked through a throng of amazingly dressed young people. I couldn't help noticing some very sexy girls in the crowd. There were TV cameras and lights everywhere.
"Fashion Week, it's fashion week" yelled a beautiful black young man wearing a tight black suit and trilby hat. He could see by my look that I wondered what was going on, and he wanted me to know. I turned to him and asked why the cameras weren't zooming onto me. I am wearing a rather traditonal pair of dark grey trousers (or pants, depending on which side of the Atlantic you were born) and a white shirt with blue stripes. I had taken off my tie and jacket before leaving the hotel.
In spite of being the antithesis of fashionable, this wonderful young man said that your grandfather looked "stellar". I expressed my admiration for his hat as I walked off, now with a real bounce in my step.
I'm now sitting at an outside table at Dos Campinos, a Chilean restaurant just three blocks from your father's first home at 212 East 47th street,I'm sipping a glass of Argentinian malbec with a delicious dish of seabass in front of me. The place is crowded, mostly with people half my age. But what the heck, the young man with the trilby said I look stellar. Alas, I don't seem to be attracting the attention of any young women here. I'm especially dissapointed that I appear invisible to the blonde at the next table with tight white jeans.
I'll have to contend with this beautiful seabass. I can't complain. After all, I'm in my beloved New York.
Grandpa Jonathan
New York, New York
I adore this place so much that, if I could, I would wrap my arms around it and hug it so tightly. I could not possibly overstate my complete adoration for my beloved New York.
It's a warm evening and the streets are buzzing with people. I'm staying at the Doubletree Hotel on Lexington Avenuen which was formerly the Metropole Hotel. It was on the sidewalk (or pavement depending on which language you speak) outside of this establishment the Marilyn Monroe, the iconic actress who committed suicide in the sixties, posed for that famous photo with the wind blowing from the subway vent to raise her dress, while she kind of helplessly tries to stop it showing too much of her thighs.
As I left the hotel in pursuit of a nearby restaurant on East 51st street, I walked through a throng of amazingly dressed young people. I couldn't help noticing some very sexy girls in the crowd. There were TV cameras and lights everywhere.
"Fashion Week, it's fashion week" yelled a beautiful black young man wearing a tight black suit and trilby hat. He could see by my look that I wondered what was going on, and he wanted me to know. I turned to him and asked why the cameras weren't zooming onto me. I am wearing a rather traditonal pair of dark grey trousers (or pants, depending on which side of the Atlantic you were born) and a white shirt with blue stripes. I had taken off my tie and jacket before leaving the hotel.
In spite of being the antithesis of fashionable, this wonderful young man said that your grandfather looked "stellar". I expressed my admiration for his hat as I walked off, now with a real bounce in my step.
I'm now sitting at an outside table at Dos Campinos, a Chilean restaurant just three blocks from your father's first home at 212 East 47th street,I'm sipping a glass of Argentinian malbec with a delicious dish of seabass in front of me. The place is crowded, mostly with people half my age. But what the heck, the young man with the trilby said I look stellar. Alas, I don't seem to be attracting the attention of any young women here. I'm especially dissapointed that I appear invisible to the blonde at the next table with tight white jeans.
I'll have to contend with this beautiful seabass. I can't complain. After all, I'm in my beloved New York.
Grandpa Jonathan
New York, New York
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
Porterhouse steak
Chicago is famous for wonderful steaks, and I am happy to report that the highlight of my day was to have a juicy and sizable porterhouse with my colleague and friend, Nick Kalm. And just to underline my gluttony, this tasty meat was washed down with a fabulous bottle of 2005 Barollo, which is my absolute favourite Italian wine. I suppose the only bad news is that I had to pick up the check (or bill, depending on whether you speak American or English English!).
Good weather continues, so we were able to dine al fresco and watch Chicago life go by, which was fun. We saw a double stretch hummer, which is a ridiculous tank-like car that was almost the length of a bus. There's always plenty of crazyness to be found in this country. God bless America.
Grandpa Jonathan
Chicago, Illinois
Good weather continues, so we were able to dine al fresco and watch Chicago life go by, which was fun. We saw a double stretch hummer, which is a ridiculous tank-like car that was almost the length of a bus. There's always plenty of crazyness to be found in this country. God bless America.
Grandpa Jonathan
Chicago, Illinois
Monday, 13 September 2010
Missouri to Illinois
I must complete the story of the US Open tennis tournament. When I arrived in St Louis, I learned that the rain resulted in a postponement of the men's final until today.
Having had a good day of meetings in St Louis, I dashed for my flight to Chicago with my colleague with my colleague, and I we made it with just 20 minutes until take-off.
Upon arrival at Chicago's O'Hare airport, I took a taxi downtown. I talked with the driver who was from Nepal. He was a teacher in his home country, and now an immigrant must do this work to make a living and keep his wife and two children. He works a 12-hour day. His wife was a professional dance teacher in Nepal but can't find work in the US. But he's happy because his children get a good schooling, but concerned that they will lose touch with their roots. He told me that the prefer to speak to him in English and not Nepalese, which makes him sad. Such is the life of a typical economic migrant in the US.
While sitting at one of my favourite bars in downtown Chicago I was able to watch the closing minutes of the Open. It was so moving to see Rafael Nadal collapse to the floor and weep upon winning. He's a tennis professional who earns millions of dollars, and yet the joy of victory is clearly more important than all the money in the world.
So I am now in the state of Illinois, having spent 24 hours in Missouri. I will now stay in Chicago, known as the Windy City, for three nights. It's a warm, balmy evening and lovely to enjoy a few more days of summer here in the Mid West. I am now sitting outside on a busy street enjoying a lovely glass of Californian Cabernet Sauvignon before going to bed.
In the words of Scarlet O'Hara, a central character in 'Gone with Wind', one of the most acclaimed films of all times: "tomorrow is another day".
Grandpa Jonathan
Chicago, Illinois
Having had a good day of meetings in St Louis, I dashed for my flight to Chicago with my colleague with my colleague, and I we made it with just 20 minutes until take-off.
Upon arrival at Chicago's O'Hare airport, I took a taxi downtown. I talked with the driver who was from Nepal. He was a teacher in his home country, and now an immigrant must do this work to make a living and keep his wife and two children. He works a 12-hour day. His wife was a professional dance teacher in Nepal but can't find work in the US. But he's happy because his children get a good schooling, but concerned that they will lose touch with their roots. He told me that the prefer to speak to him in English and not Nepalese, which makes him sad. Such is the life of a typical economic migrant in the US.
While sitting at one of my favourite bars in downtown Chicago I was able to watch the closing minutes of the Open. It was so moving to see Rafael Nadal collapse to the floor and weep upon winning. He's a tennis professional who earns millions of dollars, and yet the joy of victory is clearly more important than all the money in the world.
So I am now in the state of Illinois, having spent 24 hours in Missouri. I will now stay in Chicago, known as the Windy City, for three nights. It's a warm, balmy evening and lovely to enjoy a few more days of summer here in the Mid West. I am now sitting outside on a busy street enjoying a lovely glass of Californian Cabernet Sauvignon before going to bed.
In the words of Scarlet O'Hara, a central character in 'Gone with Wind', one of the most acclaimed films of all times: "tomorrow is another day".
Grandpa Jonathan
Chicago, Illinois
Sunday, 12 September 2010
New York's other big news
As I leave New York for St Louis, the men's final of the US Open tennis championship is due to begin at Flushing Meadow.
While much of people's attention yesterday was focussed on the anniversary of 9/11, the most successful player in the history of modern tennis, Switzerland's Roger Federer, was beaten in the semi-final. His victor was Novak Djokovic who left his family behind in war torn Serbia at the age of 12 to become a champion.
Djokovic is playing the Spaniard, Rafael Nadal for the title. It takes place in the Arthur Ashe stadium, named after a wonderful black former tennis star who tragically died from AIDS as a consequence of a blood tranfusion. This was before AIDS had been identified, now many years ago.
But we sit on the tarmac at La Guardia airport waiting in a long queue -- the captain having just informed us there being no less that 14 planes ahead of us -- it is pouring with rain. So I fear that Messrs D and N will be anxiously sitting in their dressing rooms hoping the grey sky will clear.
Instead of getting wet in New York, I opted for this earlier flight to St Louis. I have two important meeting there tomorrow, so this will enable me to have dinner and get to bed early. As is so often the case, your grandfather has left things to the last minute. So I plan to get up early tomorrow to prepare for the meetings.
Grandpa Jonathan
La Guardia Airport, New York
While much of people's attention yesterday was focussed on the anniversary of 9/11, the most successful player in the history of modern tennis, Switzerland's Roger Federer, was beaten in the semi-final. His victor was Novak Djokovic who left his family behind in war torn Serbia at the age of 12 to become a champion.
Djokovic is playing the Spaniard, Rafael Nadal for the title. It takes place in the Arthur Ashe stadium, named after a wonderful black former tennis star who tragically died from AIDS as a consequence of a blood tranfusion. This was before AIDS had been identified, now many years ago.
But we sit on the tarmac at La Guardia airport waiting in a long queue -- the captain having just informed us there being no less that 14 planes ahead of us -- it is pouring with rain. So I fear that Messrs D and N will be anxiously sitting in their dressing rooms hoping the grey sky will clear.
Instead of getting wet in New York, I opted for this earlier flight to St Louis. I have two important meeting there tomorrow, so this will enable me to have dinner and get to bed early. As is so often the case, your grandfather has left things to the last minute. So I plan to get up early tomorrow to prepare for the meetings.
Grandpa Jonathan
La Guardia Airport, New York
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