Postcard from 9/11: Home

Prologue

I once told my therapist that, when I was in college, I wrote poetry (I later realized) as a way of processing and understanding my feelings.  When my father died, I was having difficulty dealing with my feelings about it; I felt trapped in a stubborn numbness.  My therapist encouraged me to write then.  Several poems came out of it, and writing them helped unlock me.

So when I found myself stranded in Chicago on September 11, 2001, my instinct was to write.  I did so, almost compulsively, as if my survival depended on it.  The resultant memoir was long, rambling, repetitive and horribly written.  And yet, I felt I needed to share it with the family and friends I’d been so far away from at such a horrible moment in our history and in our lives.  I sent it out by email to those closest to me.

Less than two weeks after 9/11, I was on a plane again, bound for the Grand Canyon for a vacation my friends Howard and Bill and I had scheduled months before.  Against the backdrop of that natural wonder, I continued to process my feelings about 9/11 in what became the first set of “Postcards from Don” that I sent out by email.

Eventually, after that email distribution grew to almost 75 (and after “blogging” came into being), I transferred the Postcards to this blog.  So it was really 9/11 and my compulsive, rambling memoir of it that returned me to writing – a passion I’d only dabbled in since college.

It seemed appropriate to revisit that memoir on the tenth anniversary of 9/11.  I’ve edited it rigorously, correcting inaccuracies, righting the chronology, eliminating redundancy.  It’s a tighter narrative with a clearer storyline.  But, although it details my thoughts, feeling and actions on 9/11/01 and the five days following it before I returned to New York, it’s not really about 9/11.

After my return, 9/11 would take on a terrible and poignant tangibility for me.  In the posters for missing persons that plastered every surface from 14^th Street down to the Battery.  In what smelled like formaldehyde, when I walked out of my apartment every morning.  In the impromptu candle vigils that assembled every night in Union Square, one block from where I lived.  In the uncommon kindness and courtesy New Yorkers displayed to each other – so much salve for our communal suffering.

Sometimes, when I’m troubled, I just go out and walk.  And I did that one night after 9/11.  Without even intending to or even realizing what I was doing, I made a circuit around midtown Manhattan, stopping at the landmark buildings — the Chrysler Building, MetLife, Citicorp Center, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, New York Life on Madison Square – as if I needed to reassure myself they were still there, that everything in the city that is my home was not falling down around me.  My 9/11 memoir is really about the nature of “home” – both the place and the feeling; at least what “home” is for me.

In these days of texts and tweets, I have to warn you: it exceeds 140 characters.  It runs, in fact, to fourteen typewritten pages.  It will take you approximately thirty minutes to read, should you choose to.  It’s a bit of a global tragedy in itself that that seems long, even to the author.

POSTCARD FROM 9/11: HOME

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 
9:00 a.m. Omni Chicago Hotel

I’m in Chicago for consumer research with my Evian clients.  I flew in late last night on American out of LaGuardia.  I had an earlier flight, but it was cancelled as a big thunderstorm blew through New York.  Luckily, I got the last flight out.  Otherwise, I would have had to go back home to Manhattan and re-book for first thing in the morning.  With groups starting at noon, I could have made it; but they’re scheduled well into the evening.  It would have made for a very long day.

I go down to breakfast a bit after 9:00 a.m. Chicago time.  There’s a TV above the bar at the entrance to the restaurant, and a handful of customers and staff are watching.  On the screen, I see a building being demolished, collapsing on itself.  A title above the image says “Moments ago in New York City.”

I don’t recognize the building.  I’m curious which it is, and why its demolition is on the news.  Nothing’s visible around it, so it must be a notable skyscraper.   But unlike the old buildings that are demolished from time to time in New York to make room for new development, this one seems unadorned and modern.  I don’t get it.

As I’m seated for breakfast, I overhear people talking at neighboring tables: a plane has crashed into the World Trade Towers.  I’m imagining a small private plane, the pilot losing control in strong winds, slamming into the building.  What else would be flying that low in the vicinity of downtown Manhattan?

But then I hear otherwise: two commercial jets have been hijacked and flown into the sides of each of the towers.  The Federal Aviation Administration is pulling every airplane in flight out of the sky.  The entire U.S. airspace is being shut down.  One of the towers has collapsed.  Now I understand the image on the screen – moments ago in New York City.  My home.

I eat my breakfast mechanically.  I think about being on an airplane (as I so often am) while it flies into the side of a skyscraper.  Or being in an office in a high-rise building in New York (as I so often am) as an airplane crashes through your window.  I stare out the restaurant window at the skyscrapers on Michigan Avenue.  The image from the television screen – moments ago in New York City, the building collapsing on itself like an accordion – replays over and over in my mind.  As if my mind is trying to comprehend something it cannot.

As the nature of what has happened reverberates inside me, a vast pit begins to open up and expand around me: at a moment of national emergency, the likes of which my generation has never known, I am by myself in a city I hardly know and where I know no one – eight hundred miles from home.  Right now, all I wish is that I were home, and that I didn’t have to now somehow get there.

9:45 a.m. Omni Chicago Hotel

Back in my room, I frantically begin trying to call New York.  On my cell phone, on the hotel’s landline, I am trying to reach people I know.  Whether it is more to know they’re alive or to comfort myself with familiar voices, I can’t say.  Nothing goes through.  “At the moment, we are unable to complete your call.  Please hang up and try again later.”  I can’t get a dial-up internet connection on my laptop to get to email either.

I realize that, except for a few people in my office, neither my family in suburban Washington D.C. nor any of my friends in New York know I’m in Chicago.  I travel for work so often, it’s never occurred to me to tell anyone other than my assistant of my whereabouts.  I need to contact my sister Jan to tell her I’m all right, but I can’t complete a phone call to her either.

Suddenly, one of my attempts to dial into the LAN at the office succeeds.   I log into our email and quickly shoot a note off to my sister with the hotel’s phone number, saying, “I’m fine, I’m in Chicago.”  I’m extremely careful to get her new e-mail address right and to not accidentally send the e-mail before it’s finished – something that happens frequently due to an over-sensitive touch pad I don’t know how to adjust.  I do everything deliberately, while hurrying to finish; I’m fearful the network will disconnect me unexpectedly, and I won’t be able to reconnect.

My Evian client calls me on the hotel phone.  She says, “Are you watching the news?”  In my haste to reach my family and friends in New York, I have yet to turn on the television.  She tells me our work today is cancelled.  Our focus groups were to be held in the Hancock Center, one of the tallest buildings in Chicago, and the building has been evacuated and closed for the day, fearing it, too, might be a target.  We agree we will meet later at her hotel for lunch.

I turn on CNN and learn about the airplane flying into the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia.  My sister lives ten minutes from Dulles Airport in suburban Virginia, and my brother-in-law works in downtown D.C.  Now I know why my calls to the Washington area aren’t going through.

Bizarre bits of news strike me.  Tourists in midtown Manhattan are snapping up postcards of the Trade Towers barely minutes after the attacks.  There were e-mail exchanges and phone calls, suddenly cut off, between people trapped on the upper floors of the towers and their families.  Phone calls from the hijacked planes were received.   A family in Seattle gets a call made on a cellphone from a survivor trapped in the basement after the tower’s collapse.

In my mind, I begin a triage of people I must reach.  I keep dialing numbers on my cell phone and on the hotel’s landline, hoping that something will randomly go through.  I try again to get an email connection on my laptop.  Nothing.

The hotel has high-speed WebTV; something I’ve never used before, but I give it a try.  It’s clunky and strange, with a wireless keyboard and directional keys like those on a remote to jump from field to field on the television monitor.  After navigating through several screens, amazingly, within seconds I’m into my personal email, looking at a list of mails.  My friend Christine in Florida writes,  “Are you all right? Will you please respond.”  There’s an email from my friend Corey in Manhattan to his friends and family – subject: I’m fine.  I dash off emails with similar subjects:  I’m fine; I’m in Chicago.

Periodically, I check in again on the news.  I hear that the second tower has collapsed.  I’m thinking of my friends Carin and Larry, parents to my 6-year-old god-daughter Nora.  I can’t remember if both or one of them or either is working in the Trade Towers now.  I remember visiting Carin there once on the 90-something-th floor.  I stood in the stairwell, feeling the swaying at the top of the tower, hearing the steel of the staircases groan like whales at sea.

The hotel phone rings.  My sister, having gotten my e-mail, gets through.  I’m sure that all I do at the sound of her voice is sob and babble incoherently.  She says, thank god you were in Chicago.  I understand what she means, but I’m not thankful to be in Chicago.  I wish I were home.

A couple of responses to my emails have come in when I check in on the WebTV.  Some of my friends are accounted for now.  Bill is in Philadelphia for work; Howard is in New York, but safe and sound.

12:00 Noon, Michigan Avenue, Chicago

As I walk up Michigan Avenue to meet my clients at their hotel, I keep trying to make calls on my cell phone.  I alternate between people’s cell phones, their office numbers, and their home phones.  It is a beautiful fall day, warm and breezy.

Finally a call goes through.  I’ve gotten through to Ben, a young British guy who works for me; it’s his voicemail.  I leave a message, and shortly he calls me back.  The office is fine, they’re going home, but he sounds frazzled and distraught.  I reach the hotel; my clients are waiting in the lobby.  I break into tears, as I talk about being unable to reach people in New York.  Later, one of my Evian clients tells an agency colleague that I seemed to be “taking it pretty hard.”

In the middle of lunch, Corey reaches me on my cellphone.  He’s gone downtown, walking amidst the chaos, taking photos on his digital camera.  I tell him he’s out of his fucking mind.  The police are making him board a ferry that’s taking people away from downtown Manhattan to New Jersey.  They won’t let him go back the way he came.  He thinks he’ll get a bus back into Manhattan.

After lunch, I walk back toward my hotel along Lake Shore Drive.  I want the open space of the lake, the endless expanse of water to calm me.  But I barely notice it.  I keep trying to reach Carin and Larry, fearing the worst.  Every time I dial their home in Brooklyn, I get a recorded message:  “Due to the tornado in the area you are calling, your call cannot be completed.  Please try again later.’  Now is one second later.  I dial again for the umpteenth time, and this time it rings.

I expect to get their answering machine and step off the noisy sidewalk into the entrance of a building to leave a message. Larry answers the phone.  He and Carin and Nora are at home.  Larry is working in Jersey City now.  Carin works in the World Financial Center across the street from the Trade Center.  She walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and picked up Nora at daycare.  A great relief.  I am sobbing into the phone, telling Larry how worried I was about them.  Two women leaving the building give me the “is that person all right or not” look.

Then I think of Anthony.  Is he working at the Trade Towers these days?  He’s always changing offices; I can’t remember.  Finally I reach him at home.  He tells a harrowing tale of watching the towers fall from an office two and a half blocks away.  He and two others decided to make a run for it as the dust cloud approached them.

Another call from my sister.  She asks me about my friend Marisa, who she’s met.  I don’t know; I haven’t heard from her.  I start calling her, and soon I reach her.  She says that Randy walked into the chaos coming up from the subway on his way to the studio where he works on Thomas Street, just blocks away from the Trade Center.  They’re home now; the baby is fine.

Back at the hotel, I e-mail my friends Marsha and Kay.  I speak with Marsha at home; she’s fine.  Kay calls me.  She’s at the New York Times where normally she works in advertising sales.  Today, she’s in the newsroom, taking down reporters’ stories as they phone them in.  I talk with Christine and Patrick in Florida.  They didn’t get my e-mail, the very first I sent.  But now they know I’m OK.  We talk until the President comes on the television.

There’s no one left to contact.  Among those who are closest to me, everyone is accounted for.  All fine; everyone safely at home.  Everyone told I’m OK.

I turn down an invitation to have dinner with my clients.  I don’t feel up to sitting in a restaurant, talking to people I don’t really know that well.  I order room service and watch the news until I can’t listen to it anymore.  I am exhausted, zombie-like.  And yet my mind is spinning in overdrive.  I drink the two tiny bottles of Jack Daniels in the mini-bar.  I have a couple of Ambien with me that I keep for sleeping on cross-country flights.  I take one.

Wednesday, September 12, 2001
Chicago

I go to the hotel gym in the morning, do thirty minutes of cardio, and stretch.  Michael who works with me on Evian calls from the office on my cell phone; he walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge as well.  I talk with my sister again.  I have breakfast in the hotel dining room.

We are actually proceeding as scheduled with the second day of our three days of focus groups.  We’ve moved to another facility – one that’s not in one of the city’s landmark skyscrapers.  I walk there.  It’s another beautiful day in Chicago, sunny and warm.  It seems like a normal day, though the traffic is light, both the cars and pedestrians.  But stores are open, and people are walking around.

Over half the respondents show up.  They debate the usual stuff about “the brand.”  Routine and anything familiar are good.  They make me feel as though life might actually return to normal. It’s even good to sit and listen to people talk about bottled water.  It takes my mind off what has happened and what might happen, briefly.

In between our midday and evening groups, I walk out onto North Michigan Avenue.  I buy t-shirts on sale at the Gap.  Look at electronics in the Sony Store.  Eat some popcorn.  It’s a great relief to be doing normal, everyday things.

But throughout the day, periodically, my anxiety focuses my attention on the airport situation.  I’m not scheduled to leave until Friday morning, but I follow developments closely.  There is talk in the media that the airports might reopen at noon today, and if not at noon, then in the evening.  They do not.  Then the word is maybe tomorrow, Thursday, but still not before noon.

Back at the hotel, the network connection to my office is down; no internet from my laptop.  I do the WebTV thing again.  I decide I should check on Amtrak and see what’s running on Friday morning from Chicago to New York, just in case.  It couldn’t hurt to have a reservation.  I enter the information for September 14^th, requesting schedules; a screen pops up to tell me they can’t book more than 340 days in advance.  I check all the fields.  There is no place to indicate a year.  I try again several times; I get the same response.  I give up in exasperation.

Throughout my efforts, I’ve sipped the two tiny Jack Daniels replacement bottles from the mini-bar.  I have two Ambien left.  One tonight.  One tomorrow, if I need it.  After that, I should be headed home.

Thursday, September 13, 2001
Chicago

Back in the gym again.  Airplanes not moving yet.  They say maybe they will move the planes stranded at airports other than their intended destination today and start actual passenger flights this evening. Friday morning is looking more and more iffy to me.

I have no fear about getting back on an airplane.  Maybe I don’t think terrorists will strike twice in the same way.  Maybe I’m in denial.  Maybe I’m just that anxious to get home.  But I do start thinking about what it will be like when I do fly.

Undoubtedly there will be increased security measures.  I have an Exacto knife in my carry-on.  I brought it with me to slice pictures out of magazines as remodeling ideas for my apartment.  The hijackers used box cutters as weapons.  I guess I’ll be leaving that behind.

Then there’s the multi-tool Swiss Army knife I always carry in my toiletry kit, just in case.  It’s been handy while traveling numerous times and was a birthday present from someone; I don’t want to leave it behind.  Perhaps if it’s buried in my toiletry kit in my checked baggage, it will be fine.

I also have a tiny amount of pot in my toiletries case.  What if my luggage is completely searched?  They’re looking for potential hijackers, not recreational drug users, but wouldn’t it be stupid to risk it? I decide I’ll have to flush it before I leave.

Then there’s the possibility of leaving my Chicago hotel only to end up stranded at an airport for days.  Who knows what could happen?  I should take a large amount of cash with me.  Maybe $1000, just in case I can’t use a credit card somewhere.  I might have to pay someone to drive me some distance, if I can’t get all the way to New York.  I make a mental note to stop at an ATM today.  I have nothing with me to read.  I could be standing in lines, waiting in terminals forever.  I’ll buy several books on our afternoon break.

I find I have a harder time this morning getting calls through than I did yesterday. E-mail over our LAN only operates within the agency; our external connection is down.  I can’t get into my personal e-mail with Verizon; that network seems to be down as well.  This worries me; things are supposed to be returning to normal, not deteriorating.

I decide to extend my Chicago hotel reservation through Friday night, checking out on Saturday, just in case.

We have morning groups at the facility.  The area sales manager takes us to lunch.  Afterwards, I stop in Borders and buy three books.  I hit the first ATM I see — Banco Popular.  I withdraw $500 from checking and $500 from savings.  I return to the facility for our evening groups.

Between sessions, I hear the bad news.  All New York and Washington airports remain closed.  They opened briefly, but because some guys tried to board planes at JFK with phony pilots’ ID’s, they’re closed again now.   I check with the airline; my morning flight is still scheduled.  But I don’t believe the phone reps have reliable information.

I leave my colleagues around 10:30 p.m. and return to my hotel.  I stop at the front desk and extend my reservation one night more through Sunday morning, just in case.

I’m holding a reservation from Chicago to LaGuardia for tomorrow morning.  I’m thinking the chances are slim to none I’ll be on that plane or on any plane into any New York airport in the morning.  I begin to consider alternatives.

If I could fly to Philadelphia, I could rent a car and drive to New York or take a cab there.  I actually did that once in Philly when I’d missed the last train back.  The guy charged me a couple hundred bucks.

I call American and make a reservation on the first available flight from Chicago to Philly.  It’s late tomorrow night and arrives in Philly at 11:30 p.m.  I could get stuck there overnight, unable to get out of Philly until Saturday morning.  That’s September 15^th, my birthday.  There’s got to be something better.

I could try to get to my sister’s outside of Washington.  Even though Dulles and Reagan National are still closed, there are smaller airports within driving distance.  Maybe I could get to Charlottesville, VA.  Fortunately, the internet connection through work is back.  I go to Expedia.  No direct flights to Charlottesville from Chicago.  I revise the search to include any number of stops.  Bingo!  There are flights to Charlottesville connecting through Baltimore/Washington International Airport.

I’d totally forgotten about BWI.  The eastern end of the Orange Line for the Washington Metro is at New Carrollton, a couple of train stops away from BWI.  My sister’s Metro stop is at the western end of the Orange Line.

I look up direct flights from Chicago to BWI.  US Airways has the first from Midway at 7:45 a.m.  But Expedia won’t accept a next-day booking.  I call US Air, and they make a reservation for that flight.   I get on Amtrak’s website, and now I’m able to make a train reservation for Sunday from Washington D.C. to New York.  Trains into the city should be running by then.

I’m now holding three plane reservations – to NY, Philadelphia and BWI.  If, when I wake in the morning, New York is open, I’ll go there.  If not, it’s BWI.  Philly is a last resort.

I check e-mails one last time.  Communications are better now, and I’ve been receiving messages and calls of love and concern.  My friend Roger calls me from LA, as does my friend David.  I get a message from Fran, my first boss back in 1982, now in Arizona; she is worried about me.  Jeremy calls me from Paris.  I get an e-mail from Marianne, a colleague from our agency in Paris who’s worked with me on Evian, expressing her shock and best wishes for my safety.  There is an e-mail from another colleague in Germany.  The British company from which we rented a villa in Tuscany last October sends an e-mail to all its American customers, expressing their sorrow.  A friend from my freshman year in college, whom I’ve not seen, spoken to or heard from in over 25 years, e-mails to tell me how concerned he’s been about me.  He got my e-mail address off the alumni website. I reply, thanking everyone for their kind, caring thoughts.  Alone in my hotel room, these thoughts from far-flung people in my life make me weep.

I schedule a wake-up call for 3:30 a.m.  My plan is to leave the hotel at 5:00 to get to Midway at least by 5:45, two hours before my flight.  Just in case.  Who knows what kind of scene it will be.  It’s now 1:30 a.m.  I’ve drunk one of the tiny replacement Jack Daniels from the mini-bar.  I won’t take the last Ambien.  I get up in two hours; I won’t really sleep anyway.

Friday, September 14, 2001
3:30 a.m. Chicago Omni Hotel

The wake-up call comes on time.  I turn on the TV and hear what I knew would be the case – New York airports will still be closed today.  BWI it is.  I shower and order room service.  I try to call US Airways to confirm the flight but am put on hold interminably.  I put them on speaker-phone, while I dress and pack.  I flush the pot.  I leave the Exacto knife in the desk drawer.  I pack the Swiss Army knife in my checked bag.  I raid the mini-bar for snacks and water, just in case.

At 4:57 a.m., room service has not arrived, and there’s no response at US Air.

I decide to leave anyway and take my chances at Midway; I can’t stay here waiting anymore.  I cancel room service.  At the front desk, I cancel the remaining nights on my hotel reservation and check out.  The porter gets me a cab.  He asks me where I’m from.  When I say “New York,” he gets a look of pained sympathy on his face and makes a muffled sigh.  He wishes me a safe trip home.

5:18 a.m. Chicago Midway Airport

When my cab pulls up, a police car pulls up directly behind us and remains there with his headlights trained on us as I pay, until the cab takes off.  I join four others already in line at the US Airways ticket counter.  Another 15 people soon line up behind me.  I’m feeling some comfort in numbers.  But no one is behind the counter yet.

Other carriers are busy checking folks in.  At 6:15 a.m., a woman in uniform emerges from a door behind the counter and starts to talk with the people at the front of the line.  I elbow in and overhear “cancelled.”  She makes no announcement.  I tell the people in the rest of the line behind me.

Two ticket agents show up and begin re-ticketing us.  We’re all booked on a 7:45 p.m.  We’re sort of on a stand-by list for a 2:45 p.m. that’s already sold out. They say they can’t actually put people on stand-by more than 4 hours in advance.  We’re told to come back to the ticket counter at 10:45 a.m. to be officially listed on stand-by and to check in our luggage.

Hauling my luggage behind me, I go check with the agents at American.  There’s something from O’Hare to BWI at 9:55 a.m., but I’ve barely time to change airports; it takes an hour by cab.  And if I go there and it cancels, then I might miss the 10:45 stand-by sign-up at Midway; and who knows, maybe I’d get on it. It seems foolish to run back and forth between O’Hare and Midway, chasing flights that are likely to cancel.  If worse comes to worse, I’m on a 7:45pm.  If it leaves.

I decide to wait it out at Midway.  There’s nowhere to sit in the ticketing area.  I sit on the floor with my luggage, leaning against a wall.  I feel utterly defeated.  I’ve used my best judgment at every turn, but I cannot seem to catch a break.

Then a woman who was behind me in line at US Air comes over and tells me there is a flight to BWI at 11:20 a.m. on Southwest Airlines with seats.  And they are actually checking people in.

I run to the Southwest counter and buy a ticket.  The ticket agent, wearing latex surgeon’s gloves, thoroughly searches both my checked and carry-on luggage.   She rummages through everything, including my dirty laundry bag.  She asks if I have a pocket knife anywhere.  I mention the Swiss Army knife in the toiletry kit.  She’s goes through the kit but doesn’t remove the knife.  I get my ticket and head to the gate. I am asked to show my ticket and ID to security guards at several different points.  There’s hardly anyone in the airport.

9:04 a.m.  Chicago Midway Airport, Gate A71

I’m the first person at the gate.  I write.  I wait.

At some point, my phone rings.  It’s Gabriela, my Columbian housekeeper, who’s been cleaning my apartment for years.  I almost never see her: she has her own keys; she comes to the apartment after I’ve left for the day; I leave money for her in a bowl in the pantry.  She’s been to the apartment and can tell I haven’t been home; she was worried. I hadn’t thought of calling her; I’m not sure I even have her phone number.  She doesn’t speak much English at all, but I talk with her in my broken Spanish, assuring her I’m fine and learning that she and her family are all OK.  A woman, waiting for the flight as well, overhears the conversation and smiles sympathetically at me.

Eventually, an earnest young man exchanges our tickets for yellow plastic boarding cards. It’s all-coach, open seating on Southwest.  We’re about to board Flight #124 to Baltimore/Washington International, with a stop in Cleveland. We’re told the pilots are on board; now we’re just waiting for two flight attendants to arrive.  Someone jokes and volunteers to serve the peanuts, if that’s all holding us up.  Everyone is trying to get home, wherever that is.  On the television, there’s a prayer service going on at the National Cathedral.

Finally the flight attendants arrive to huge applause, and we board.

11:30 a.m. Soutwest Flight #124 Chicago to BWI

We take off without delay.  It’s another beautiful, sunny day.  We rise to 27,000 feet above little puffy clouds.  The flight to Cleveland is short.  It’s like the New York-Dulles trip I’ve made so often to visit my sister and family.  This is what flying should be; take off and land, with less than an hour in the air.  Recently for work, I’ve been flying cross-country almost weekly to San Francisco or Los Angeles.  I can’t help feeling I’ve dodged a bullet this week.

We land in Cleveland briefly; let some people off; take some people on.  The flight from Cleveland to BWI is a carbon copy of the first leg – up and down in less than an hour.  On the ground, I take an airport courtesy bus to the train station at BWI.  I buy a four-dollar ticket on MARC, the Maryland commuter railroad, to take me 3 stops to New Carrollton.

I buy a pre-made, refrigerated egg salad sandwich and some Doritos.  I’ve had nothing to eat since I woke up at 3:30am except hotel courtesy apples, pilfered mini-bar snacks, and airline peanuts and ginger ale.

The trip to New Carrollton takes 15 minutes; then I get on the Metro, the Orange Line to Vienna, Virginia.  It takes about an hour; my sister will be waiting for me at the other end.  I take in the usual international mix of Washington Metro passengers.  Two Filipino boys are eyeing me and giggling, talking to each other in Tagalog.  I hear the word ‘cute’ as part of a string of words that sounds like an English-Asian-Spanish linguistic ménage-a-trois.  I am reminded of one of my favorite quotations.  It’s a statement made by a character in a Kurt Vonnegut novel, speaking about his deceased wife.  “In everything she did there was something flirtatious.  And what is flirtatiousness, if not an argument that life must go on and on?”

Arriving in Vienna, I exit the Metro station on the south side, our agreed-upon meeting place.  I look around for my sister’s minivan but don’t see it at first.  Then I spot her sitting look-out for me on top of the van.  We wave to each other as though from across an ocean.

She scrambles down and meets me at the back of the van.  We stand there holding each other for a very long time.  My throat clutches, and the tears well up.  My 84-year old mother is in the car.  I don’t think she quite gets what’s happened.  She seems to think I’m just visiting and asks how long I’ll be staying this time.  Probably better this way.  We drive to the house.

My brother-in-law gets home from work.  We all sit in the kitchen, as Jan makes curried pork for dinner, talking. It’s the kind of talk people everywhere have to do now.  Around kitchen tables.  On the telephone and via e-mail.  Sitting in offices and cubicles.  Waiting in lines in public places. Standing on the curb with one other stranger, waiting for a bus.  The nightmare images.  The amazing survivor stories.  The accounts from people who were there.  The nefarious methodology of the act that seems like it will have changed our lives forever.  My brother-in-law wonders how I will react when I finally see Manhattan again.

New York, New York.  “So good, we say it twice.”  My home for the past 25 years.

Later that evening, I take the minivan and drive my 15-year-old nephew and one of his buddies to Blockbuster to get videos.  My niece, Megan, 13-years-old, comes along.  We end up with Fight Club.  It’s more of a guy’s movie, so it was the boy’s choice, of course. But Megan goes along with it because it stars Brad Pitt, and he’s cute.  I’m good with it for both reasons, even though I’ve seen it before.

I’d forgotten the ending.  Edward Norton and Helena Bonham Carter stand in the window of an office building, watching skyscrapers fall that have been dynamited by Norton’s gang.  They collapse exactly as the Trade Towers did on television three days ago – a vertical domino game with the buildings’ floors as the pieces; more like an implosion, into clouds of dust.

As I brush my teeth, I think, this whole event feels like a disaster movie – a science-fiction action film in which mad terrorists drive hijacked jetliners into the World Trade Towers, bringing them down.  Frightened city-dwellers run in panic through the canyon streets of downtown Manhattan, a huge ball of smoke, soot and debris pursuing them like Godzilla, King Kong or other monsters from B-grade, black and white horror films I watched on television as a child in the ‘50s and ‘60s.

My sister calls me over to look at newyork.com’s website.  She is fascinated by an interactive, 3D, panoramic photo of the Trade Towers.   The site says it offers this, so we can “view the World Trade Center in all its beauty before it and many innocent lives were destroyed.”  She swirls her viewpoint around within the image.  Now it’s as if we were lying on our backs on the ground between the two towers, watching them rise above us to seeming infinity or to heaven.

Saturday, September 15, 2001
Chantilly, Virginia

Today is my birthday.  I’m 48 years old.  My mother gives me a birthday card with a ten-dollar bill inside – to get a little something for myself. On the front, there’s a charming illustration of people cross-country skiing in a city park in winter.  Behind the park, a wall of tall buildings.  At first, I don’t notice the detail; then I take a second glance.  I realize the park is Central Park and the city, New York.

My Mother doesn’t remember things so well anymore.  She says she didn’t know it was New York, though she probably picked it out for that very reason originally.  The buildings depicted are recognizable landmarks one might see from the Park looking south: the Chrysler Building, Citicorp, the Empire State Building and other lesser-known ones a New Yorker would recognize.  And then I see them.  Incongruously, bearing no relationship to their actual location, the Trade Towers, slim and modernly elegant rise above the rest.

It’s a quiet day. I copy childhood photos from my mother’s and sister’s collections at the CVS pharmacy on the Kodak photo machine.  Jan shops for fixings for my birthday dinner.

I reconnect with various friends by phone.  I talk at length with Carin, who left the World Financial Center with colleagues, despite being told to stay in the building for their safety.  It’s one of the buildings that now might have to be brought down because of damage.  She describes walking around the tip of Manhattan amidst blinding soot and smoke, to the Brooklyn Bridge.  She mentions seeing high-heeled shoes on the bridge, abandoned by women in favor of walking barefoot.  I talk again with Anthony, who worked two blocks away and left as the towers fell.  He doesn’t remember what he did the day after on Wednesday.  He knows he walked around and bought a sandwich somewhere, but he doesn’t remember where.  He’s blanked out the entire day.

Judd, my sister’s next-door neighbor brings over leftover pizza from daughter Jill’s thirteenth birthday party, where Megan stayed last night on a birthday sleepover.  The neighbors know me from many family visits.  Once I interviewed them for a project at work about family vacations.  He tells me how glad they all are to see me.  After dinner, there is the usual poorly sung chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ with one candle that says ‘Guess Who’s Over the Hill?’ stuck in a piece of apple upside-down pie.  One of the best birthdays ever.

Before going to bed, I confirm the Metroliner reservation I’ve made to New York for tomorrow.

Sunday, September 16, 2001
9:00 a.m. Chantilly, Virginia

I wake up and re-confirm my reservation.  I retrieve my whites from the dryer and pack for my journey.  I make a sandwich from the leftovers of last night’s chicken.  I say my good-byes to the family. I’ll see them next at Christmas.

Jan drives me to the Vienna Metro station.  Fang, her white American Eskimo and the loyal family dog, accompanies us.  Often, in the car, he likes to lie in your lap or rest his head on your leg if you’re sharing the backseat.  I will carry reminders of him back to New York on most of my clothing.  I always do.

One of my favorite things about the suburban stations on the Washington Metro is particularly meaningful today. When driving in, if you are parking your car and taking the train into the city, you follow the signs marked ‘Park and Ride.’  If you are being dropped off, you follow signs that say ‘Kiss and Ride.’  We do, and now I will.

I buy my farecard for Union Station.  I’ll take the Orange line to Metro Center where I’ll change for the Red line to Union Station. I help a guy at the automated ticket machine who’s headed to Providence, RI and trying to get to the BWI Airport from here.  Now I’m an expert, having made the exact same trip in reverse two days ago.  I tell him several times exactly what he needs to do.  I don’t see him coming down the escalator to the platform.  I wonder if he’s gotten confused.  Then he shows up.

He sits next me on the train and starts talking to me. He smells of alcohol.  He came down to visit his lifelong best friend in Reston, who is dying.  His wife didn’t want him to go this weekend, because of everything that’s happened, but he’d made these plans long ago.  They had tickets for the Red Sox game, but it was postponed.  He’s sure he’ll never see his friend again.  He sits on the train and weeps.  Probably he drank himself to sleep last night in his grief.  Now he’s going home.

At one point, the announcer reminds us that if we’re exiting the Metro at the Pentagon, we must have papers permitting us to be there.  I continue to Metro Center, leaving the Rhode island guy, and transfer for the Red line.  Three stops later, I get off at Union Station.

1:00pm Washington D.C. Union Station

I slide my credit card into the QuickFare machine. It’s a relief to see the reservation I made over the internet Thursday night in Chicago pop up on the screen here today.  I retrieve my ticket and proceed to the gate.  Jeremy calls me on my cell phone from Paris to see how I’m doing.  Cory calls me from New York to see when I’m getting in.  We agree to meet at Mary Ann’s in Chelsea for Mexican and a margarita.  He’s checked on my apartment.  He can tell that Gabriella was there to clean; she’s already closed the windows I’d asked him to check, that I’d left cracked open before I flew to Chicago.  At some point on Tuesday, I’d had a thought that they were still open.  The smoke.  The dust.

Waiting for the platform announcement, I chat with an older couple returning to New York who live on the Upper East Side.  I remark that I’m surprised at how few people are at the gate, for a train that is leaving in ten minutes.  They tell me they came down on Thursday on a train that was half empty.

We are called aboard.  I choose my seat purposefully, on the right side near the window.  I know that as the train glides through New Jersey on the way into Newark, there is a perfect view of the downtown Manhattan skyline from the southwest.

2:00 p.m. Amtrak #216, Washington, D.C. to New York

The train pulls out of Washington, and we begin our scheduled stops along the way.  BWI.  (Good luck, Rhode Island guy.)  Baltimore Penn Station.  Wilmington. Philadelphia.  At Philly, I am particularly aware of the skyline.  There are two boxy glass towers that I’ve always thought completely graceless. Today, lit by the afternoon sun, they seem remarkably solid.

Pulling out of Philly, I become more vigilant. As a child, I knew the name of every cross-street on my bicycle ride from school to home, and I would note my progress ritualistically as I rode.  I do the same now with towns, as we cross into New Jersey.  I see signs for Princeton Junction. South Brunswick. Edison.  Metuchen.  Iselin. Rahway.  Linden.

On the eastern horizon, there is an odd-colored haze in the sky – brown or orange-ish in the afternoon sun.  Could it be?  Or is it just the industrial air in this part of New Jersey?  I’m sure it’s smog.  But then I see the top of a plume of smoke that seems to be its origin.  The source appears and instantly disappears behind trees and embankments.  I can’t get a fix on it.  We turn a bend.  The ground level drops.  And suddenly, there it is.  Downtown Manhattan — smoldering.

As we head up to Elizabeth, the downtown skyline from the west comes into view.  I ’ve seen it from this viewpoint a thousand times, yet the scene refuses to click into place with total familiarity.  Where were the towers exactly?  Could I see that building before, or was it blocked by the towers?

I realize my expectations of my reaction to my first glimpse of New York are influenced by the devastation I’ve seen up close on TV.  I expect to weep.  But at this distance, there’s no devastation to behold.  Except for the smoke, it looks like a perfectly normal city skyline.  Just not quite the one I know.  I’m a bit disoriented.  A vista that was always a “welcome home” is there, at once familiar and yet not so.

We stop momentarily in Newark.  Then we continue, moving toward the Lincoln Tunnel and Midtown.  The whole lower half of Manhattan is visible to me now.  This is my home, and I’m almost there.  Within moments, I will be stepping out onto Seventh Avenue and hailing a cab.

At the southern end of Manhattan, there is the rise of the financial district skyscrapers, now notably less distinguished than before, that is Downtown.  At the northern end of my view, there is a similar rise of skyscrapers with some notable spires, which is Midtown.  Right below Midtown, somewhat isolated – but beautiful, noble and defiant – stands the Empire State Building, once again the tallest building in New York.   It’s the final beacon, leading me home.

Postcards from New York

Basil Fawlty Books a Flight

A couple weeks ago, late on a Sunday night, I decided I would book the flight for a trip I’m taking in November to Egypt.   I was hoping I could use American Airline AAdvantage miles to buy the ticket and that I had enough points to get Business Class seats.

I had a bit over 97,000 miles in my account.  I’m at the Platinum level, just below the program’s highest level, Executive Platinum.  In past years I’ve reached Executive Platinum, but less travel for work had lowered my status this year.  Several years ago I hit a million lifetime miles, which means I’ll never drop below Gold.

I went to aa.com, logged in and clicked “Redeem Miles” under the AAdvantage tab.  Then I hit the cheerful, red “Book Now” button.  Autofill handily suggested “JFK-New York” and “Cairo International” as my “to” and “from” destinations afer only three keystrokes each.  I filled in my dates and hit “Go.”

An animated graphic momentarily hypnotized me with a moving circle of tiny squares below a polite message — “One Moment, Please.”  It took just a few seconds.

The screen reverted to the  ”Book Now” form with a red-lettered message above it –

“No American, American Eagle, or American Connection service is provided between the cities requested. Please contact AAdvantage Reservations for Award opportunities on AAdvantage participating airlines.”

OK.  Seems like there should have been a way to tell me that the moment I chose “Cairo, Egypt” from the drop-down menu, but no biggie.  The Platinum Desk at American is manned (or more frequently womanned) 24/7.  I called; I got Roberta. I explained what I was trying to do.

We first determined how many miles I’d use to get a round-trip Business Class seat — 135,000.  I was 38,000 short.  But no worries, I thought.  I could buy the 38,000 additional miles I needed, and the cost was likely to be less than that of a Coach ticket.

For the next half hour, Roberta clicked away, trying to find available Business Class award seats on the dates I wanted on any number of American’s partner airlines.  Finally, she found outbound seats on Royal Jordanian through Amman.  But the return was stubborn.  The best she could do was Coach on British Airways from Cairo to London and then Business on American from London to New York.

However, she had a suggestion.  I could hold the reservation without actually booking it for five days.  During that time, I could call back periodically to check and see if Business Class opened up on the British Airways leg.  (Apparently there was no waiting list or automated way to request the upgrade.)  As long as I booked by midnight that Friday, the reservation would be held.

I agreed to the plan.  Roberta put the ticket on hold.  We bid each other a warmly-wished good night.

Then I had a brilliant idea.

I remembered that my Starwood Preferred Guest points could be used as frequent flyer miles.  Preferred Guest is the rewards program for Starwood hotels, which include the St. Regis, the W, Westins, Sheratons and others.  I’d used my points for free hotel nights before, but never as frequent flyer miles.  So I went to the Starwood Preferred Guest site to see what was involved.

I had 195,000 Starwood points, and they could be transferred to American AAdvantage 1:1 – one mile for every point. Bingo.

It couldn’t have been easier.  I chose American AAdvantage as the program I wanted to transfer to.  I gave them my AAdvantage number.  I pulled out 50,000 points, just for good measure.  I even got a bonus of 10,000 points — 5,000 for each 20,000 I transferred – which were added to the transfer for a total of 60,000.

I got a confirmation screen and printed it, followed seconds later by a confirmation email.  And that’s when I noticed it.  After the summary of my transfer, there was a sentence that read –  “Please allow 2-4 weeks for your transfer to be posted to your designated frequent flyer account.”

Oh, dear; I hadn’t counted on that.  I had a dilemma to resolve.  While I was mulling this over, I went to the American site to see if the reservation was there.  Indeed, it was, marked as a “Hold” with a reminder to book by midnight on Friday.  But I noticed that only the London-JFK leg was marked as Business Class.  Along with the Cairo-London leg, the outbound flights on Royal Jordanian were marked as Economy.

I thought Roberta had said she could get the outbound flights in Business.  Maybe she’d made a mistake, maybe she’d misunderstood me.  Maybe I’d misunderstood her.  After all, we’d walked through a number of different scenarios.  Maybe I was just confused.

Now I had two issues to resolve.  But by this time, it was really late.  I decided I’d deal with it all tomorrow and went to bed.

Throughout the next day, Monday, and into the evening, I pondered my dilemma: should I forget about the Starwood points, or maybe try to stop the transfer, and just buy the extra miles I needed for the ticket before Friday?  Or should I let the reservation lapse, since it was mostly in coach anyway, wait for the points to transfer, and then rebook the trip, hoping to get a complete Business Class ticket?

I couldn’t decide.  And what’s more, I didn’t really know how to evaluate the pros and cons of my options; so much seemed to depend on the availability of award seats, which hadn’t been easy for Roberta to find in the first place.  I went to bed Monday night, still undecided; but woke up Tuesday with a course of action in mind.  I would call the American Platinum Desk, and ask for their advice.  Surely, they could opine on whether to let the reservation go or not and on the likelihood of being able to rebook in 2-4 weeks.

At work Tuesday morning, I called the Platinum Desk.  Maybe it was Shirley who answered, or perhaps her name was Charlene.  She pulled up my reservation.  I asked her first about the Royal Jordanian flights in Economy.

“Oh, they’re definitely in Business Class,” she said.  “I don’t know why they do that, but the partner airlines only show up in your itinerary as Economy.  But the reservation is for Business.”

An odd and annoying bit of business, but a relief to hear it nonetheless.  Roberta had done what she’d said, and there’d been no misunderstanding.  So I went on to explain my Starwood Points dilemma as clearly as I could.

“Did you ask Starwood to expedite the transfer?” Marlene asked, as though that would have been the natural thing to do.

“No,” I tentatively responded, as I sensed the possibility that a pearl of frequent flyer wisdom was about to be laid before me.

“I don’t know for sure about Starwood,” she continued, “but I think if you ask them to expedite the transfer, they can do it for you immediately.”  This was great news.  But I thought I should check on my back-up plan.

“But if they can’t, ” I asked Shirlene, “I can still buy miles to make up what I lack, yes?”

“Of course,” she told me,  “but you have to do it 48 hours in advance.  They take 48 hours to post to your account.”

This was a new wrinkle.  If I wanted to buy the extra miles, I now needed to do it by midnight Wednesday, the next day.  But good to know; a possible crisis had been averted by this tidbit of information.  I thanked Shirelle profusely and punched the keys on my Blackberry to pull up the number of the Starwood Preferred Guest Service Desk with a certain sense of triumph.

I dialed.  After the usual recorded notifications and menu options — “please listen carefully as our options have changed” – I was connected to Andy.  Andy had a slight Hispanic accent at odds with his Anglo-Saxon name, but he seemed eager to please, despite the fact that he also seemed to be reading from a script.  I explained the situation and asked him if it were possible to expedite the points I’d transferred online Sunday night.

There was  a pause.  And when he spoke again, it was clear we were now off-script.  He repeated what I’d asked him to be sure he’d understood.  I confirmed he had.  His next few utterances were just Andy thinking out loud about how to proceed, and then he reached a conclusion.  If I didn’t mind, Mr. Hogle, he’d put me on hold and get back to me shortly.  He needed to consult with his supervisor.

I’ve learned one thing through years of air travel, dealing with ticket agents, gate agents and customer service phone representatives: these people actually do hold, if not your life, at least your travel happiness in their busy little hands.  And the best way to get what you want or desperately need is to be totally pleasant, address them by name, and applaud their every decision about how to proceed as though they’d just solved world hunger.  NEVER, I repeat, NEVER exhibit anger or frustration; you’ll end up in coach next to the lavatory the day after tomorrow, guaranteed.

“Fantastic, Andy,” I cooed.  “That sounds perfect.”

Andy consulted, while I listened to a recording about the amazing benefits of the Starwood Preferred Guest rewards program.  He returned with a definitive answer:  those points I’d transferred online Sunday night were in process.  There was nothing that could be done to expedite them; there was nothing that could be done to stop them.  Checkmate, cul-de-sac, no exit, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

A moment passed while this sank into my consciousness.  The other thing I’ve learned in my years of frequent travel is that when stonewalled, you should always make one last, incredibly polite attempt to get what you want — just in case there’s some way to do it they might have accidentally overlooked.

“So there’s absolutely no way,” I asked incredibly politely, “for you to expedite those miles I transferred Sunday night, so that they post to my American AAdvantage account before Friday?”

“I’m afraid not,” Andy replied, with a note of regret in his voice.

And then, like the beam of a lighthouse in a dense fog at sea, the number “195,000″ started glowing in my mind.  I’d transferred 50,000 points; I still had 145,000 in my account.

“So, Andy,” I ventured, “could I transfer another 50,000 points right now over the phone, and expedite them so that they’d post to my AAdvantage account before Friday?”

I could tell that Andy shared my excitement at the possibility of this solution.  “Yes, you could,” he told me.  But he couldn’t do it for me; expediting could only be done by a supervisor.  If I didn’t mind holding for a minute, Mr. Hogle, he could connect me with his supervisor who could handle it.

“That would be fantastic, Andy,” I cooed again.  “Let’s do that.”

Andy put me on hold, and for a brief moment, I listened to a recording about the amazing benefits of the Starwood Preferred Guest rewards program.  When the supervisor came on, it was immediately clear why she was a supervisor, supervising people like Andy.  Her name was Angie; or maybe I’m confusing her with Andy, and she was actually named Cheryl.  Regardless, she had a crisp, all-business tone of voice that suggested I was in capable hands, but that I’d better not be up to no good.

She asked how she could help me.  I explained again that I wanted to transfer 50,000 points to my AAdvantage account and expedite the transfer.  No problem, she could do that for me.  It occurred to me this time to ask how long it would take for the expedited points to post to my account.  “Three to five days,” she told me.

I started doing rapid calendar arithmetic in my head.

It was Tuesday.  I was holding a reservation that would expire in three days  at midnight on Friday.  If I purchased the extra miles I needed, I had to do so by midnight on Wednesday, since they needed 48 hours to post.  If the expedited Starwood points posted to my AAdvantage account in three days, they would be there sometime during the day on Friday before the midnight deadline; but if I waited until then, I ‘d have missed the deadline to purchase additional miles in the event the Starwood points took longer than three days.

Clearly every moment in the process had become precious.  So I pressed Charlotta for absolute clarity on the three to five days.  I could sense a bit of growing annoyance in her voice as she replied.  They might post in less than three days — often they did in less than 24 hours — but it all depended on the airline, there was no guarantee.  It was likely they would post within three days, but she could only guarantee they would post in five.

I was beginning to feel like I was traveling to Vegas instead of Cairo and playing a pre-trip game of chance called Frequent Flyer Roulette, where the odds definitely favor the house.  I had to make a decision.  Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets.

“Let’s do it,” I told Clarissa, with a note of reckless abandon in my voice.  If by some miracle, they posted in less than 24 hours, I’d have myself a free ticket to Cairo.  If they didn’t, I’d buy the extra miles, and I could always use the transferred Starwood points for award travel at some other point in the future.  You can never have too many frequent flyer miles.

We went through the details of my American AAdvantage account, and then she asked, as though it should be a given, “And the names on your Starwood Preferred Guest account and your AAdvantage account are the same?”

I was looking at the confirmation email from Starwood about the points I’d transferred Sunday night.  My name on the account was listed as “Don Hogle” which is, of course, the form of my name I use most often.  But somewhere in the back of my  mind, I seemed to recall having to change my identification with American after 9/11 to my name as it appears in my passport, which would be ”Donald Hogle.”

I had the American Airlines site open on my computer, so I quickly logged in to the AAdvantage section to see how my name was listed — indeed, it was Donald.

“There’s just a slight variation,” I meekly proffered Melissa.  “It’s Don on my Starwood account and Donald on my American Account.”

“Well, then I can’t do it,” she exclaimed with a note of finality and resolve, as if she’d just successfully smashed a cockroach with a newspaper.  “They have to be exactly the same.  If I put them through, the transfer will just be rejected.  And the ones you transferred online previously are going to be rejected as well.”

I followed my rule of asking one more time with incredible politeness, though I’m guessing a bit of strain had crept into my voice and changed the “incredible” part of that formula to “minimal.”  Melinda, however, was adamant: there was nothing to be done.

But it’s hard to kill a cockroach.  Some hairy antenna twitched in my nearly lifeless brain, and almost without knowing I was saying it, I said, “Could I change the name on my Starwood Account right now?”

I could almost hear the thwack of the rolled up newspaper, as it came down again, definitively this time.

“No,” she said.  “You have to send us a copy of your driver’s license, and it takes two weeks.”

I thanked her profusely for not helping me in the least and hung up the phone.  I was resigned.  I would buy the damn extra miles.  I was still getting a Business Class seat (except for one leg at the moment) presumably for less than the cost of Coach.

I thought it best to take no chances with buying the miles.  You can purchase them online, but after my experience with transferring the Starwood points, it seemed far too risky.   I called the American Platinum desk with the assurance that comes with prudence.

It may have been Rhonda who answered.  Or perhaps her name was Rhoda.  She pulled up my reservation.  I was proceeding with the utmost caution at this point.  I verified that the Royal Jordanian Economy flights were, in actuality, in Business Class.  She told me they were.   I asked her to check if any Business seats had opened up on the British Airways leg.  None had.  Then I told her I wanted to buy 38,000 miles to add to my account.

Rita was one of those very familiar African-American ladies, the kind you want to be your grandmother.  “Honey, you have to do that online at the website,” she replied.

Not an issue.  I’d wanted the surety of a human transaction, but I buy things all the time online with total comfort.  I could do that.

“And I just want to confirm,” I continued, “that it takes 48 hours for the miles to post to my account.”

“72,” she corrected me.  “It takes 72 hours for purchased miles to post.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.  “Someone else at the Platinum Desk told me it took 48 hours.”

“72,” she repeated with the patience one takes with a small, overly-inquisitive child.  “It takes 72 hours.”

“So I need to buy them by midnight tonight, if I have to book the ticket by Friday at midnight.”

“That is correct,” she stated.

We went on to discuss how much the miles would cost.  It was somewhere around $900.  But there was a special promotion on, and the price was discounted by something like 20%.  The cost would be $700 and change.

I thanked her, hung up, and went to the American website.  I logged in, hit the AAdvantage tab, and found where to purchase miles.  There was a conspicuous message displayed, advising members to allow 72 hours for purchased miles to post to the designated account.

I designated my account and the number of miles I wished to purchase.  The discounted promotional cost was $760 with a $30 processing fee and Federal excise tax of $57, for a total of $847.

Ironically, I paid for the miles with my Starwood Preferred Guest American Express card, which rewards me with one Starwood point for every dollar I spend.  I was building that Starwood balance I hadn’t been able to use.  I received a confirmation and printed it.  Now all I had to do was wait for the miles to post.

At home, Tuesday night before I went to bed, I checked the American site.  Nothing had happened: 97,734 in my account.  I checked when I first got up on Wednesday – 97,734.  I left the American site open at work, and refreshed it every time I went back to my desk – 97,734; 97,734; 97,734.  Last thing Wednesday night at home, I checked once more – 97,734.

First thing Thursday morning,  I checked in again – 195,734.  They’ve posted, I said to myself with relief.  Then, I did a double take.  I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them.  I put on my glasses.  There was no mistaking the number — 195,734.  This was suspiciously 98,000 miles above the balance I’d had.

I scrolled down to the recent transactions section.  There were two new entries:  “Miles Purchased — 38,000″  and “Starwood Preferred Guest — 60,000.”  The purchased miles had posted in less than 48 hours.  And the Starwood Points — which were supposed to take 2-4 weeks to post and which should have been rejected since they came from someone named Don and not Donald according to Belinda the belligerent supervisor — had posted three days after I transferred them.

I had bought the miles needlessly, though I couldn’t have known that at the deadline for purchasing them, allowing the full 72 hours they could have taken to post.

The end of the story is that on Thursday, I booked the ticket with the American Platinum Desk.  I think Jackie was helping me.  In fact, I’m certain her name was Jackie.  By adding on an extra day in Cairo, I was able to get Business Class on all four legs.  She gave me seat assignments, and they are definitely Business Class seat numbers, though they’re still labelled Economy on the website and in any confirmation I’ve received.  Jackie assured me this would not be an issue.

There were taxes of $402.20 plus a $25 processing fee.  That brought the total for my award ticket to $1274.20 plus 135,000 miles.

Today, as I write this,  the cheapest round-trip Business Class seat on Kayak for the dates I’m traveling is $4476.  When I’d started researching flights on my own, the cheapest Coach fare had been just above $1000.  Today, Turkish Airlines has a round-trip Coach fare through Ataturk for $875 — just about the same as the cost to purchase the additional miles I needed to book Business Class.

In a coda, while I’ve been writing this morning, I received an email from the American AAdvantage Program, congratulating me on surpassing another million mile milestone — 2,000,000 lifetime miles flown on American.

“As the millions of miles add up,” the letter says, “you are among a select group of members who earn this special designation. In just a few weeks you will receive a new elite membership card that acknowledges your multi-Million Miler status — plus additional rewards to convey our appreciation.  We are gratified by your dedication and confidence in us. Thank you for your commitment to American Airlines and the AAdvantage^® program. “

It was signed Maya Leibman.  She’s the President of the AAdvantage Loyalty Program.  Or was her name Marsha?