2003-03-10 - 1:18 p.m.
The Effects of Bad Karma on a Weekend in New York City
or, Why Does it Always Rain on Me?
Does karma come to a person through luck? Is karma about repaying a debt or righting a wrong, or does karma, like a Christmas fruitcake, simply travel from person to person, lighting wherever it deems fit and staying until it is ready to affect another?
Last Wednesday night, I came home from the gym around 8:30, planning on packing and getting to bed early, as I had to catch a 6:32am flight the next day for my long-anticipated 4-day trip to Manhattan. I came home to a small maintenance issue; upstairs, my neighbor's water heater had busted. Luckily, my kickass roommate had moved my furniture and laced the hallway and my bedroom with every pot, dish, pan, and 1 fishbowl (?) in the house, catching the driplets of bad karma that were unknowingly seeping through the ceiling of my bedroom and into my life. The men who dragged the wet/dry vac (along with a lot of mud and rust) through my apartment assured us that the problem was taken care of and my bedroom ceiling would be repaired immediately.
Approximately 6 hours later, I skipped onto flight 700 to La Guardia with a soy latte and a fresh sense of pre-vacation anticipation. I turned up my headset, got out my map, and hummed "New York, New York" to myself, thinking of all the things I was going to do when I arrived in the city. I would be in New York in time to drop luggage and have lunch with a friend - and was thinking about going to the DaVinci exhibit at the Met since there was supposed to be "scattered winter precipitation." About 45 minutes after the obligatory "Flight attendants, prepare for landing," we still hadn't landed. After another 45 minutes, the captain told us that it was snowing too hard to land at La Guardia, and we were going to Newark. I commenced to studying my map again, trying to decide how to best route myself to Penn Station. After another 2 hours, the plane landed. As it was by then 2pm, I was starting to get very hungry and more than a little cranky. The entire flight is grumbling about modifying their plans and collecting their luggage, when the intercom voice informed us that we were currently refueling in Syracuse - NOT Newark - and would be flying back to La Guardia momentarily. If by "momentarily," they meant "3 hours later" - we were right on track. I finally stepped off the plane at LGA at 4pm.
Despite the caving, mildewy ceiling at home and the 9-hour trip to NYC, I was still fairly upbeat. I had a great dinner with an old friend, a lovely walk around mid-town, a late night involving tequila, and (despite another night of 4 hours of sleep) had a great Friday of shopping, sushi, and one small mishap involving spending $50 on a new cell phone battery. However, not to be outdone, Friday produced its own casualty; about 7:30pm, my party and I realized that my karma had caused a musician's strike on Broadway. So instead of the hip Italian musical, my friends and I ended up at a great Middle Eastern bar, where I wore a large blond afro and smoked strawberry-flavored tobacco out of a hookah! (Isn't that a fun word to say? HOOKAH!!!) I felt like Sammy Davis, Jr. in "Alice in Wonderland." Can't wait for the pictures! Evan and I then swung by the Thompson Hotel bar in SoHo, where I hooked up with my roommate and several Texas people! A great time was had by all, and I fell into bed at 4am.
Saturday was balmy and beautiful, and 3 very tired friends with hangovers and a tendencies to wax philosphical over eggs and coffee met at Jerry's - the greatest brunch in SoHo. After some shopping and walking and walking and shopping, I ended up at Apple, a bar near NYU, where I was supposed to meet a friend of mine from Pittsburgh, who happened to be in the city that weekend as well. Unfortunately, I had written her cell number on a post-it, rather than putting it in my phone. Of course, I left the post-it at home, so an hour and a half (and 2 martinis) later, I left without ever seeing my friend. Back at Evan's, I got short nap and a fresh outfit, and departed the apartment around 10pm. We stopped for a disappointing slice of pizza before meeting some friends to go dancing. The club where we were supposed to meet was in a basement on West 8th - and after 30 very cold minutes in line and $26 in cover charges and coat checks, Sandy and I ended up in a loud, overstuffed dance club - where we patrolled unsuccessfully for our girlfriends. We never found them and ended up at a bar on Bleeker called the Slaughtered Lamb. No, seriously. Several missed phone calls to various parties later sent us home around 4am for the third day in a row.
Sunday I missed a coffee date at 10, ate brunch with Sandy at the NoHo star, bought a new "I < heart > NYC" shirt, finally hooked up with my Pittsburgh friend, pet a pug on the subway, and caught a plane back to Dallas. I was so tired that not even the multiple coffees could assuage my drooping eyes. Roomie was on a separate flight which was delayed 2 hours, so I went home to my still ripped up ceiling and now mildew-smelling apartment, went back to the airport to pick up Sandy, and returned home to discover that something (I think it was perfume) busted in my suitcase.
I was quite wary of leaving the house this morning, and am still not altogether sure that a grand piano won't land on me before the end of the day.
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