July 16, 2017
JFK International, New York. An El Al jet is parked beneath the window where I write, in the Delta Sly Club, whose exclusivity is marred tonight by being crowded with travelers. Sat for a while with a distinguished Russian gentleman who hails from Archangel and who’s on his way to DC for a conference on global warming. He remarks on the variety of human faces, says, “you are a nation of many nations.” I want to say, “tell that to our leader.” A little angling discovers that he is proud of Putin, thinks him a great man and a patriot. At one point in the flight between Atlanta and New York (after two white wines) I was overcome with gratitude at being on my way to Galway, a place which always brings me joy, and which, for some reason, I seem to have been denying myself. The Place Where I Missed Finding Love has become The Place Where I Might Have Found Love, which is, somehow, sweeter. Block long Kuwait Airlines jet. I still don’t understand how these things get into the air, or stay there once they’re launched. The man on one side of me is instructing his wife how to put air in the tires. The man on the other talks about opening the skate park he runs (or ran) at 1 in the morning for Dave Chappelle.