The Awkward Beginning

Here starts a back log of consciousness that first began on Monday July 25th, when I was supposedly to leave NYC to Durban, South Africa via South African Airways (SAA). I left Minneapolis on Thursday July 21st and subsequently stayed at Julia Weinkauf’s temporary, but hip East Village apt as she completed her sub-internship at NYU surgery program. The long Manhattan weekend allowed me to see Hal Horowitz (rocker photographer), Courtney Bellomo (my AMSA gossip conduit), Ben Park (my Asian friend), Shareef Riad (plastic elephant lover - to the left), and Jason Reed (my half Asian friend). I also met Susan Fox, the United Nations HERO (Help Educate at Risk Orphans) Program Coordinator, who enlightened me with some valuable South Africa knowledge. Yes, the weekend was a relaxing preparation before I fell backwards into the unknown.

But Monday July 25th David the ticket attendant for SAA at JFK airport un-relaxed (excuse my improper English) my relaxed mind-set with his sharp words “SAA is on strike and we don’t know when the strike will be over. There are no flights today. I’ll book you for Aug 3rd. And we’ll ship you over to the Ramada Plaza Hotel and tell you when the strike is over. Come back standby for a possible flight tomorrow. NEXT!” Unbeknownst to me, SAA had been on strike since last Friday – the first strike in 75 years, shutting down nearly all air traffic into South Africa and leaving thousands of people stranded all over the world – Paris, London, etc.

After three nights in that wretched hotel, I prefer to call it “Hotel Ramada” for its prison-like service. Fortunately SAA paid for the accommodations and the redundant breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffets. But then again, it costs one dollar to call locally or to use a phone card to call nationally; the internet was $1 for 5 speedy minutes; and I was trapped in my hotel room when I wasn’t at the airport twiddling my thumbs as a standby. Plus SAA were unwilling to give free future vouchers or miles for me inconvenience. The hotel was located 1-1.5 hours of bus/metro travel from Manhattan - much too far for me to travel after 5 hours of sitting on airport floors each day. Each night I went back to my hotel room yapped on the phone with my friends who each helped console me. Thanks Krista.

I found companionship in a few other SAA victims like Emanuel from Nigeria and the Marinoffs from Greenwich Village in Manhattan, and a woman ( I can’t seem to remember her name.) en route for a mission in Lesotho. We spent the entire morning on Wednesday July 27th plotting our escape from the “Hotel Ramada”. Emanuel and I felt discouraged as we enumerated our possibilities and as we each took turns placed on hold with SAA on the phone. SAA provided us no communication and little hope. Our calculations told us to stay back in the hotel while we let the rest of the crew venture to the airport as standby lackeys.

Or maybe I was the lackey. I went to the airport that evening to convince SAA to send me back to Minneapolis rather than hold me hostage at Hotel Ramada for another week. SAA told me that my new friends made it on the flight and my name was called to leave. Shame. My laziness to go to the airport earlier that day forced me to view another night of reality TV shows and lengthy phone calls. Thanks Krista.

Fortunately on Thursday July 28th, SAA gave me a ticket to ride. Freedom!