A peaceful departure at 6PM from my house on Manhattan’s UES – kisses to Ollie & Max, a slip out the door with rimowa’s 4-wheeled cabin bag (that has a life of its own, seriously) and tote with ipad, phones and Air.  No jackets, no luggage to be checked, no heavy books.  Just the way I like to travel. Sedan waiting.  Off to Newark for an 8:30PM wheels up on Continental’s new 777 direct to New Delhi.

“You hit heavy traffic, Miss,” says my Bangladeshi driver.  “Nothing to do.  5^th Avenue best way. We go across at 39^th Street.”

6:45PM.  48^th and Fifth Avenue.  Jockeying for any advantage, huge tourist buses bearing down on all sides, police whistling and waving at each crossroad.  Something’s up, but my driver hasn’t a clue.  Moving absolutely nowhere.

I tell the driver to go West and, with wagging finger and clucking tongue, he bumps his way across 48^th street. 7^th Ave, 8^th.  We hit 9^th at 7PM.

Next hurdle is the Lincoln Tunnel that takes us to Jersey and Newark Airport.  Can’t figure out why it’s such slow going, and then we see there is only one lane open.  We sit. 7:20PM.  We are still in Manhattan.  I check my flight. It’s on time.  Bangladesh is clucking constantly now and slapping his wrist against the steering wheel;

I am quiet, breathing.

Ommmmmmm

Through the tunnel at 7:35PM.  Bangladesh turns to me and says one word: “Seatbelt”.  And then we fly.  7:45PM.  I see the airport tower in the distance.  10 minutes away I gauge.  I must be there before 8, or they won’t even consider letting me board.  I weigh my chances:  I still need a boarding pass, but I am flying business, and I have no luggage.

7:55PM.  We pull up at Terminal C,  I hand the sweating driver a wad of cash, and run through the automatic doors firing questions at anyone who looks Continental-connected.  Two floors down is business check in.

“No”, says the attendant lackadaisically  looking at her watch. It is 8PM, and the flight has already been called.  “Please try,” I beg, and she picks up the phone, makes a call (first phone has no dial tone), asks for my passport, issues a boarding pass and says, “You’ll never make it, but it’s up to you to try.”

Security lines snake back through layers of barricades.  The gatekeeper is another Bangladeshi in maroon jacket.  “Please Sir,  I have ten minutes to get my plane to India. Can you give me permission to go ahead?”  Is it India that moves his heart? Somehow I think so, and he escorts me to the front of security where my boarding pass is scanned.  From here I can see gate 102 where boarding is proceeding, albeit chaotically.  I still need to get my kit through the scanners.  I am stuck behind a family of 4 with mounds of goods in pillowcases and bags.  The scanner starts and stops and rejects bags as electronic items are found packed in their depths.  Again, I plead my case, and the attendant lets me cut the line with a begrudging nod.  Ipad and computer out; shoes stuffed in handbag.  All through!

I grab my three pieces and run, barefoot, to the gate.

Ommmmmmmmmm