Merry Cry-stmas

I have, on the days when I’m not busy pinching myself to check if I’m dreaming, imagined what will be running through my mind when I land in New York City for Christmas this year.

They are usually thoughts that come accompanied with exclamation marks, occasionally question marks, and during my more sober hours, dollar signs.

In reality, however, all I was thinking while the plane bumped on the runway was “PLEASE don’t let me puke all over the place.”

So yeah, it was a little of an anti-climax, if climaxing at touch down is not contradictory in itself. However, the fault was mine. I had, in my haste and cotton-candied mind (thanks to recent events), completely forgot to select my flight seat upon checking in.

Life has a special kind of punishment for this kind of ditzy. It’s call The Worst Seat in the Plane.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. But it was the last row of seats, pretty close to the wings, and definitely too close to the cranky baby crying and whining throughout the six-hour midnight flight. The leg room was practically non-existent, and the air was stuffy. Towards the end of the journey, the ride got bumpier, hence my pressing concerns with seeing my dinner from last night again. That turkey sandwich looked like the type to hold a grudge.

Like I said, it was my fault.

(But you know that I’m living a special kind of dream when despite having slept a total of probably two hours in the most neck-breaking position ever after a whole day of work, with the colicky baby’s cries looping in the background, I still woke up smiling like an idiot. ^^)

Now, I’m typing this in JFK Airport, a little dazed and disorientated. I’m lugging around a baggage equivalent of the volume I packed when I moved from Malaysia to the States, only this time its stuffed with bulky winter clothing, which I’m currently feeling rather dumb about, because I’m now only wearing a thin Forever 21 trench coat and the stuffiness is already getting to me. Where’s the blistering winter cold of NYC that everyone was warning me about? The negative degree Celcius weather that the pilot announced before landing? I’m looking out the window now and NYC looks as sunny as California.

Okay, to be fair, I have not stepped out of the airport. I will eventually do so, when my sister’s flight arrives. Right now, I just want to sit down and stone. I have, in my quest for Wifi in JFK, dashed about with the crazy weight of my baggage, before finally giving up and resort to just sit down to reminiscence the good ol’ yesterday of San Francisco International Airport’s free wifi.

Oh, did I mention that you have to pay to get a luggage cart here? As the huge signs on the carts say, “Welcome to New York”.

So, yeah, all in all, not all that superb a morning. But heck, I’m in NYC. Time to put on that empire state of mind. Right after I round up my marbles.

******

I had thought that spending Christmas in New York City was a dream-come-true. Now, it seems like one of those biting realities that someone should have muzzled before it got out of hand.

To be fair, a white Christmas does look dreamy. There is something oddly warm and fuzzy about seeing the blanket of fluffy white covering roof tops and shop signs and tree branches – it’s one of those scenes where you wish someone close to your heart would share it with you. And the Malaysian in me is still trying to wrap my head around the memory that I was actually playing in the snow and throwing snowballs at my crazy sister, and laughing at my brother-in-law as he rolled down a snow hill, and building a snowman, no, a snowmidget, more like, in Central Park.

But after a few hours of almost slipping on dirty melted slush (they looked like whipped cream being stomped on), and spending frustrating hours refreshing Delta website because the whole airline services were thrown out of whack thanks to the worst blizzard NYC has seen in decades (yes, my first encounter with snow had to be THAT dramatic), I just wanted to tell the winter wonderland what Ash from Army of Darkness told his girlfriend-turned-Deadite, “Honey, you got real ugly.”

Okay, I'll admit that Winter was a wee bit prettier than her. A wee bit.

Right now, I’m typing this in the JFK International Airport in NYC, holding a stand-by ticket for a plane bound to San Francisco International Airport at 5pm. Stand-by, meaning that there’s a high chance that the plane is actually full and I’ll be camping out on the airport floor tonight, like the rest of the passengers, some of whom had been getting up close and personal with the JFK carpets since Sunday.

The blizzard was all over the news, and the reports on flights just got scarier and scarier. People were spending hours in the airport waiting for something, but all they got was a flight notification board full of the glowing yellow “Cancelled” words, and more bad news – we may be looking at days-long delay in flight. The crowded and chaotic atmosphere in the airports was topped with reports of food and power outage there, which seemed like the perfect setting for cannibalism. Or *dramatic pause* zombie apocalypse.

Optimism has always been my strongest point. Which, if you really think about it, is kinda sad. But oh well.

This is my optimistic face.

Despite the bleak situation, I had to make my way to the JFK airport, because my flight was cancelled, and yet there was no new flights scheduled by the airline. The phone lines were completely jammed up, and the website had erred so much that its probably human. I even signed up for Twitter just so I can bug the airline with my haiku brevity (*shudders at the amount of short forms I had to use*). But there was No Response.

So when push comes to shove, I’d rather not be at the end where you get run over.

After several rounds of frustrated wailings and denial by refusing to get out of bed and bitching about Delta airlines with my sister and brother in law, I begrudgingly left the comfort of my hotel, baggage and a heavy heart in tow, and departed for the JFK airport. I knew it would be a long day, and most like, night. Due to the blizzard, thousands of flights were cancelled, and so you can imagine the backlogged of passengers who have been stranded at the airport way before I am. What chance do I have to squeeze into the pathetically few flights that are finally starting to pull out from the runway?

But heck, optimism, remember?

******

And so, my gallivanting in New York City came to a close with me making one last discovery. It is actually really depressing to be waking up from the table that you had fell asleep on, while the realization that you are still in the airport thudded down upon your bleary conscience. Holding a stand-by ticket, too. And Starbucks is closed, because it’s friggin’ 5 a.m.

Yes, I spent the night camping out in the JFK airport, because the thing about optimism is that it doesn’t pay the bills, nor score you the dream girl or guy, nor secure you a seat in an overbooked airplane. But it’s still a handy thing to have, because it’s probably the only thing standing between you and a certain urge to shoot yourself in the head.

Despite the depressing news reports, the atmosphere in the airport is surprisingly chilled, even though many, like me, have no inkling on when we will actually leave this dastardly expensive place. When we are not gawking at the screen showing the seats assigned to those in the stand-by list with a certain madness in our eyes (gosh, you do not wanna know what’s in our heads), we are a bitter-but-not-beaten crowd, lurching about in the airport with the remnants of restless sleep shrouding our crestfallen faces. Much like anyone you see on the streets, really.

That said, emotions are at an all-time high, and I have not seen so much raw humanity for a long time.

There was a lady who, after waiting in line at the Delta Help Desk for about an hour, promptly sat down and sobbed. I handed her a bag of tissue, knowing that if I don’t get on a plane in another 24 hours, I would probably be sobbing even louder.

I watched a little girl, about 8 or 9, sitting on the ground with her belongings and a blanket. With despair and weariness in her eyes, a wave of crimson started spreading throughout her face, and as her mouth pouted tears started rolling down her cheek, which she wiped profusely with her hoodie sleeve. It was a sort of quiet desperation that should never cross a nine-year-old’s face.

I talked to a Canadian dad with a wife and a five-year-old daughter in tow. He had, prior to flying out of his parents’ place in Florida, checked that his transit flight in JFK would be departing on time. Upon arrival at the airport, however, he found out that all flights bound to his destination had been cancelled, with no reason other than bad weather. He had no idea when he could fly out; his daughter is having a meltdown, and he is spending about a hundred bucks a day to pay for the meals of his family in the airport. He tried getting meal vouchers (which basically lets you buy airport food at a cheaper price), but after being sent from one crowded help desk to another, he still couldn’t find someone who could provide him with one.

“I don’t have unlimited funds, you know,” he chuckled, but without humour in his tone.

Another girl, who was queuing up behind me at the help desk, told me that she had to lug her baggage and ran from terminal to terminal, and from one airline operator to another, because no one could tell her where her flight was supposed to depart from. It was already 6.30pm, and her flight was scheduled to fly at 7 p.m., and she was already on the verge of tears as she begged the officers to please find her flight. In the end, they promptly told her that the flight simply does not exist. In desperation, she forked out another $1500 to buy another air ticket to LAX, thinking that it would help her make it for her transit flight to New Zealand the next day. But, as luck would have it, her new flight was delayed as well.

“I have no more money, everything went to the air ticket. And now it looks like I still won’t be able to make it for my transit flight,” she said, staring dejectedly on the ground.

Further behind in the line, a guy about my age was cursing into his cell phone.

“I just want to get out of here. I don’t want to be sitting in this airport, f***ing j**king myself off anymore. I was on the stand-by list and I saw someone just paid $3000 for a ticket and got on the plane [angry pause] I don’t care, the bottom line is someone f***ing bought my seat with three thousand bucks.”

To twang our already raw nerves even further, the help desk line was barely moving. I had only about 5 or 6 people before me, but had to wait for about an hour before it was my turn. There were only three counters opened in the beginning, and one counter was hogged by this couple throughout the whole time I was in line. People were throwing angry glances at them – what kind of problem could they be having to justify the attention of the agents for an hour, while the rest of our feet are dying beneath us? To be fair, the agents were probably weary as well. People were probably being bitchy to them the whole day.

Thankfully, they opened two more counters, and after another century of waiting it was finally my turn. And while the agent was processing my requests, a girl suddenly showed up beside me and pleaded someone to help her retrieve her saxophone, which she had left in another terminal. She needs to board her plane shortly, and was willing to pay someone for their trouble.

“How much are you willing to pay?” The agent attending to me asked her.

“$40,” the girl said.

“I’ll do it,” said the agent, who practically shoved my tickets to me, mumbled some instructions and then promptly got up and left the counter. I glanced at the long line of people waiting for their turn, while the girl bound for New Zealand smiled bitterly at me. I sighed, and smiled back.

Despite the general air of hopelessness, heightened by the sound of shops and restaurants closing their shutters for the night, people were still trying to maintain a certain light-heartedness. They chatted, make jokes and generally looked out for one another. We may not know each others’ names, but when stuck in the same boat, friendships need no formalities.

And thanks to that quiet camaraderie, and thanks to the phone calls that helped me stay sane, I pulled through the otherwise lonely and scary night in the airport. Granted the whole place was still brightly lit, with cheery Christmas songs playing in the background, and security guards were patrolling the place, and nobody tried to eat anyone yet… but the sort of fear you experience comes from the uncertainty on when you can actually leave this place, how much trouble you’re gonna get from your employers when you’re not back in time for work, and the fast disappearing balance in your debit card. Honestly, I was in the position where I could not leave the airport and find somewhere else to stay, because (1) I don’t have enough money for the cab fare to keep coming and leaving the airport, and (2) the hotels around the airport are probably going to cost a bomb, due to New Year’s Eve and the whole flight-cancelling chaos that has hit all the airlines. Another gnawing worry is that I would soon run out of money to buy airport food. I would really regret having to eat my own leg, because to quote Willy Wonka in the most recent Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie, “humans don’t taste so good.”

It was, however, sheer luck that this morning, I was squeezed into the last seat in a flight bound to San Francisco despite being No.10 in the waiting list. I don’t know what exactly happened. I was sitting on the ground, trying desperately not to doze off while watching the stand-by list board like a hawk, err, trying not to doze off. It was impossible, anyway, because there were only five available seats. An incoming phone call, and I dreamily drew relief from the comforting voice, and it must have been really a dream because suddenly I heard my name being called – wrongly, of course, but it was my name! I scarcely had time to pinch myself. Dream or reality, I’m getting on! I dragged all my belongings to the boarding gate, shoved my boarding pass and passport towards the officers and after a while, found myself seated in a Delta plane, where I promptly fell asleep again.

It was a most wonderful feeling to be wake up from the window you were leaning on, as the realization that you are still in an airplane dawned upon your bleary conscience.
When I touched down at San Francisco, I very nearly dropped to my knees on the dry and snowless California ground and kiss its sun-lit surface. But of course, I really do not want to attract anymore weird stares, seeing as I’m probably gaining some attention for my hobo smell (okay one night in the airport is not so hobo but the romantic drama queen in me like to imagine that I’ve experienced hobo-ness, just for something to tell my grandchildren. Don’t mind me, unless you’re my grandchildren). Thus, I resort to just march proudly outdoors without having to suffocate in a bundle of thick winter clothing.

That said, I kinda sorta a wee bit miss the snowy scene. Ah well, once my memory fails me again (it’s bound to happen one of these days), I might attempt winter traveling again. In Japan, probably. I’ve heard that the sakura is worth it =)

*****

New York City was, despite everything, pretty darn amazing. Seeing my sister and my brother in law again was even more so! Will be blogging about that later, once I got around to processing the pictures. That will be soon. I hope.

And because I have that much faith in myself, here's the disclaimer.

Writing Withdrawal

This marks the end of my 30 days and nights of literary abandon.

I had dived into my first NaNoWriMo pledge with nay a plot, and came out with nay an ending.

Because 50,000 words are just not enough to conclude the awesome-ness that my writing partner and I had jointly created (he was responsible most of the awesomeness; I was just there to pass the coffee and occasionally, the word count. Better cheat than never, I guess). And because, I think, neither of us had any idea what the hell is going on in those pages right now.

But what can you expect when you have characters which consist of a boy and a girl and a zombie and a badass leather babe (except she’s not) and a snarky hip uncle (except he’s usually a doll) and a robot (named after Dr. Seuss) and a few ghostly girls (always with The Ring’s Sadako feel to them, for some reason) and two combat-ready teachers who would feel right at home in Professor X’s mutant school. And a salesman.

Yes, we wrote like there’s no tomorrow. With false assumptions like that you tend to throw in everything that sounds like a great idea in your head and see which stuck. All of them did, shame on them. That posed several conundrums, but none that we can’t overcome with the wonders of padding and blatant killing of some characters by completely failing to mention them in the next several chapters.

But of course, there is always tomorrow. That’s the whole point. We live to write another 1.667 words, come what brain-deadness may.

It had been a hell of a ride; a journey of self-discovery. For one, I realise that I can actually make things up. At 4-bloody-a.m. And loving every moment of it, even the bits that I fell asleep in, with the laptop teetering on the edge of my lap.

I came to realise how much I love writing fiction. I’ve always considered myself a journalist, with a kind of rock-hard conviction for the Truth. And of course, a novelist seem to require a kind of amazing ingenuity for creating Something out of nothing, and not to mention the ability to look dashingly romantic in a moustache/beard (sorry, blame my stereotype on staring at Terry Pratchett’s mug too much) and a beret. I was sure the Truth would be easier. You just dig and dig and piss everyone off and dig some more. Nothing to it, to quote a dear friend and respectable journalist.

The funny thing is, I’ve always found more truth in fiction. Pratchett’s novels can strike a chord deeper than any news or analytical piece can. Sometimes I find myself reading the newspaper just because I need to.

Heck, I got into writing because of Pratchett. He had said that “writing is the most fun anyone can have by themselves”. I bought his words. And a whole bunch of Discworld novels.

Then of course I realise that I am no Pratchett. My writing doesn’t bear wit like his – most of the time I have to glue the bad puns on and hope that no one would notice. And writing is actually painful for me. It drives me nuts. It made me feel both intoxicated and depressingly sober at the same time.

And then there is the whole thing about the Truth. I wonder if I’m any good at getting them.

Of course, as the years go by I also came to realise that writing is as much of a pain to even the best of writers (they just get paid a whole lot more). And you get better at digging, for Truth is a lot like turnips, but without the practicality of the latter.

It was not until NaNoWriMo that I actually felt Pratchett’s words. Making things up is a whole new universe of fun, especially when you’re doing it at unearthly hours with a support system in a different time zone cheering you on. It’s an opportunity to sit back without having to have 500 Firefox tabs opened on various research materials, and just let the brains and fingers foxtrot into free-fall fantasy.

Of course, I still love journalism as heck. Because it's so damn hard. I'm probably a masochist.

Here’s to all who stood by me when the writing bumped along, and sometimes crashed into walls. I was hanging on to the rope entwined with your encouragements, and that was the only thing that has saved me from being swallowed into the dark abyss of Giving Up.

And here’s to my partner, for being a genius and a wonder-friend :)

Now, to finish the novel! Synchronizing plot ninja!