A Few Days in Stamford

With many of my co-workers making a mad scramble to get their lives squared away for their Dublin move, I was very disappointed that I had to take a trip this week. Ernest, Katkin, Chharlie (no, that’s not a typo), and many others would call this week their last in the US and here I was catching a redeye flight to Newark on a Wednesday evening.

As I do the self check-in at LAX I note that the itinerary supplied to me says that my seat is coach but when I get to the seating chart on the touch-screen it says I’m assigned to aisle 3. Unless first and business class only take up two rows, I’m sitting pretty. I’m even more encouraged when the guy who checks my bag slaps a Priority tag on my bag.

I make my way to the gate and I’ve got about 45 minutes until they board. I go next door to a crappy little airport bar and pony up to the counter. The bartender is one of those nobody talkers. She’s always saying something but you never really know to whom or to what end. She’ll be shouting “Who’s next?” while walking right by people who have been waiving a $20 in the air for 10 minutes.

Also behind the bar is a deaf-mute bar back who is pre-opening a half dozen wine bottles but can’t figure out the complexities of the corkscrew. Literally, he’s got an audience of people laughing as he spends 10 minutes trying to figure out how to use one of those industrial grade wine openers that simply require you to stick the bottle in the tube and pull the handle down. One guy is screaming that he’s a bartender and wants to show the guy how to use it but the bartender just keeps telling everyone that he’ll eventually figure it out. I don’t think anybody was trying to be mean but this was becoming painfully comedic.

I finally get my order in to the bartender who leaves a good inch and a half empty space at the top of the glass. The woman sitting next to me is still laughing at the bar back’s wine issues as she turns to me, noticing my short pour on the beer, and says “You should see her pour the mixed drinks. She fills it up about 3/4 with booze and then throws a splash of mixer on top.” Sure enough, as she’s saying this, I see the bartender making a mixed drink and she pours the glass nearly full of tequila and then shoots some margarita mix on top.

I put a $20 on the bar and the bartender snaps it up. I see her walking about serving two other customers while she has my $20 grasped in her hand. Then she takes the money for the two orders, comes back and gives them change, and goes on serving. Whoa! Unless this is a $20 beer, I just got ripped off here. I try to flag her down several times and she pretends not to see me. I finally catch her attention and remind her that I gave her a $20. She immediately acknowledges it and says she couldn’t remember who the change was supposed to go to. She goes to the register and brings my change only to scoop it up off the counter about ten minutes later. I yell after her, “Hey, that’s not a $12 tip,” to which she replies “Well, gotta get that money up off the bar. You can’t just leave it sitting there.”

I get on the plane and sure enough, I’m in business class. Nice! I’m in la-la land within ten minutes of the wheels leaving the earth and don’t wake up until about twenty minutes before landing.

We land at Newark and I know that my itinerary for this morning probably doesn’t have time to catch breakfast so I go into an airport coffee shop and grab a OJ and muffin on my way to baggage claim. As I’m standing there to pay, there’s a notice on the cash register saying that, for security reasons, drinks are not allowed on the flights. I figure Newark must have the tightest security restrictions of any airport I’ve ever been in and begin dreading the check-in on the way out. Only on the ride in would I hear on the radio about the terrorist plot in London.

My luggage comes off the carousel at around 7am. I look for the car that is supposed to be waiting for me and don’t see it anywhere. I look around outside the terminal and don’t see anything there either. I call the number I was given for the car service on a pay phone because I can’t even get one bar of signal strength inside the airport. I get thrown directly into voice mail and leave a message telling them that I’m looking for their guy but don’t see him and that if I don’t see him soon I’m making other arrangements.

I make a few laps around the baggage claim areas and make a few trips outside the luggage claim area but still don’t see the car. I finally get service on my cell and make another call to the car company as I start making my way towards the hired car section to find a new ride. This time they answer and they tell me the guy is going to meet me inside the terminal and that he’s parking the car as we speak.

We meet up, go to his car, and hit the road around 7:40am.

My hotel is in Stamford, CT as is my appointment this morning. I can only helplessly stare out the window as we run into multiple traffic jams. We pass Manhattan and I start trying to do the math on what my point of no return is. At what point do I have to call the people I’m supposed to meet with and tell them that I’m running late?

We actually make pretty good time once we get out of NY and I arrive at my hotel around 8:50. My meeting is at 10am and it’s about five blocks from the hotel so I hurry up to my room, shower, shave, and change.

If you read my Vegas WSOP trip reports you know about my love/hate relationship with cleaning ladies. Of course, not five minutes after I check into my room the cleaning lady barges in. I tell her I just checked in and haven’t even set my bags down yet so I haven’t destroyed the room enough that it needs any attention.

I end up making my appointment which goes well and lasts about four hours. Afterward I head back to the hotel for a nap.

Later that evening I decide to go out for a stroll and there’s not an open business anywhere. I keep walking and walking and finally stumble across a Stop-n-Go market. Ah, finally. Since I haven’t seen an open restaurant anywhere I figure I’ll pick up some munchies and beer and go back to the hotel and watch TV or read a book. I pick out some appropriate snack food and then wander around looking for the beer aisle. When I finally find it, I am shocked, nay, nearly paralyzed with confusion as I see it blocked off with a sign that says “No Alcohol Sales After 8pm or on Sundays.” How can this be? Did I walk all the way to the Deep South? As the tunnel vision sets in and I hear the dramatic music playing in my head I expect that at any moment Rod Serling will come from behind the next aisle and begin “A man in search of tasty cold beer is denied of his desire. He thought he was walking down to the local market but instead he’s ended up in the Twilight Zone.”

I make the long journey back to my hotel minus a tasty beverage.

The next day I spend putting out fires at work all day and then I take the train into NYC where I’m hoping to grab dinner with one of my dearest friends and maybe meet up with The Rooster later for drinks or something. I had a nice walk through the main part of Stamford and it was a nice little town.

My friend and I have dinner at this joint up on 1st Ave between 58th and 59th and then head back to her apartment and end up sipping back a few vodka tonics until I’ve got to bail and catch the train back to Stamford. I wished I could have caught up with Rooster but it was a bit of a last minute thing and by the time I was heading out to Grand Central for the train it was past the point of being rude to call.

Saturday I had a car pick me up and take me to Newark for the flight home.

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