We rustled up some snacks from the self-checkout stores dotted around the terminals of Newark Liberty International Airport, including chocolate milk, which my sister assured me was the most effective way of maintaining hydration. We stood at the back of the crowd, watching as boarding groups 1, 2 and 3 made their way onto the plane. For reasons understood only by United Airlines, boarding is split into two lines that merge back together just as people are asked to scan their boarding pass. When boarding group 4 was announced, we stepped forward, but were unsure of which line we should be in, and no one around us seemed to be moving toward the gate. In that beat of confused hesitation, a gentleman behind us said we should be Line 1, so we went ahead, apparently the only two souls in Boarding Group 4. It’s a modest club, but extremely exclusive.

Because of our missed connection the previous night, the United Airlines agent had upgraded our seats to Economy Plus, so our seat numbers were in the 30s instead of the 50s. We were seated on the right side of the plane, in a row that as of yet had no one else sitting in it. The overhead luggage compartment was completely empty, but we still jammed our bags as close together as possible in hopes of leaving room for the poor souls behind us. From our seats we watched a few dozen more people trickle in toward the back of the plane. The trickle became a drip, and pretty soon there was no one else but the flight attendants coming down the aisles. All the passengers in our half-full section held their collective breath…the announcement that the boarding doors were closed went off like a starting gun, and there was a rush of bodies spreading out to claim as much space as they could find. I slid over from the middle seat to the aisle seat, thereby establishing dominion over a modest 3-seat fiefdom, gratefully occupied by two sore, sleepy peasants. A woman laid out across all four empty seats in the middle section next to us, providing a vivid illustration of the proverb “Fortune favors the bold.”

Colleen fell asleep almost immediately after the spate of irritating announcements that airlines insist on making until the plane reaches cruising altitude. I made a stab at sleep, but gave up after a few minutes. First I watched a few episodes of “Barry” on the small screen in front of me. But staring at a screen while traveling doesn’t feel right (except of course hours in front of a text editor banging out long-winded blog posts), so I switched to reading my book. It was Jack Kerouac having a conversation with himself for two months sitting alone in a fire lookout tower somewhere in the northern Cascades of Washington, which, as reading material goes, was pretty tough sledding. It wasn’t long before my eyelids drooped and drowsiness fell heavy enough to overcome the ungainliness of sleeping sitting up.

The cabin went dark, meal carts came and went, a baby wailed itself into exhaustion, and the plane shot towards a dawn that came ludicrously early by the clock on my phone. I read, I wrote, I dozed, I ate while the hours slid by at a pace of their own choosing. Window shades remained mostly shut until after the final meal was served about an hour from Dubai, and then the blinding late afternoon light was allowed in just in time to watch our descent through the sandy-colored air down to a sprawling city built on the slim margin between sea and dune.

After we deplaned, we had to go through an abbreviated customs and security check to get to our connecting terminal. At 7 p.m. local time, the terminal was almost entirely empty. It was clean, comfortable, and above all, quiet. Unlike Newark, there were no blaring announcements every 15 minutes about not smoking in the terminal or accepting packages from unknown persons. We found plenty of empty lounge-chair style seating where we could put down our bags and put up our feet. It felt luxurious after 12+ hours in the air, even with half-empty Economy Plus seating, and we sat for a time gathering our wits and taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi.

After breakfast we returned to the hotel and packed up our things. We asked the woman working the front desk if there was a cheaper option than a $45 Uber ride into New York City. She said that there was a bus stop a five-minute walk away that would take us to the Port Authority in Midtown Manhattan. Soon enough, we were on a NJ Transit bus whizzing through the Linconln Tunnel, going up and down ramps and into the bowels of some huge building. The sign showing which stop the bus was approaching appeared to be broken, since it read “Pleasant” when everyone on the bus suddenly got up and headed for the exit. I asked a young woman who was the last to disembark if we were at Port Authority. She said yes, so we grabbed our bags and hurried out the door behind her.

Before leaving the station, we did some research on what our options were for getting back to the Newark Airport and ended up buying tickets for the NJ Transit 107 line. Then we oriented ourselves and found the station exit onto 8th Ave, where we were immediately subsumed in a swirling crush of humanity. There is no other U.S. city that has so many people out on the street at once, almost all of them hustling after their own ends. Natives are no doubt inured to it, but to an out-of-towner – even one from another city – the surge of energy is quite a rush.

The weather was gray and misty, perfect for walking 20+ blocks with bags on our backs to make our way to Chelsea and the High Line elevated railway. It had been renovated and turned into a garden snaking its way through Manhattan’s lower west side several years after the last time either of us had been in the city. We strolled amongst the throngs of tourists, taking pictures and admiring the plants. We worked our way south and got back to street level near Pier 57, where we ate lunch, then walked to the architecturally innovative Little Island Park.

The clock runs faster when you’re enjoying yourself, and we soon had to be headed north back to Port Authority, so we walked along the green strip running along the Hudson River until we got to 34th street, then hung a right back into the bustle. I needed a memory card reader and recalled that B&H Photo was somewhere in Midtown and would have something like that. Colleen had bought a movie camera from the place two decades prior and was curious to see what all the fuss was about. Not only did it live up to the hype of being the best photography store on the planet, the prices were shockingly reasonable, at least for items that I was in need of.

With our gear and baggage in tow, we plunged back into the Port Authority amongst the 5 o’clock rush of people exiting the city. We found a long line of people waiting to get on the 107, but it was only 10 minutes or so before we boarded the bus and careened back though the Lincoln Tunnel and onto the New Jersey Turnpike. We were the only fair-skinned people aboard, but no one really seemed to notice. When we got to the stop where we had to make a connection to an airport shuttle, the driver made eye contact with me in his rearview mirror and gave me the thumbs up. We found ourselves waiting with one other person at a forlorn little bus shelter that seemed like it five miles from anywhere. We’d just sat down wondering how long we’d have to wait when the 37 shuttle squeaked to a halt and threw open its doors. The driver said he stopped at all terminals. Fare was $1.80 per person, and when I tried to put a $5 bill in the machine, the driver waved me off saying I shouldn’t be overpaying. We got off at Terminal C, thanked the driver for his generosity, figured out the status of Colleen’s checked bag, then plunked down in a seat near gate C98 to await boarding our plane to Dubai.

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Empire State Building in the fog.

Photobombed. Who says New Yorkers don’t have a sense of humor?

View from the High Line Garden.

Foodtruck on cobblestones, with pigeon.

B&H Photo, literally the Holy Land of the photography world. You’d think I’d look happier to be there.

While I was wandering around taking photos before breakfast, I had a chance to observe the New Jersey approach to ticketing parked cars prior to the street sweeper coming along to tidy up things up. Someone driving an official pickup with little flashing lights on the top would drive up behind a parked vehicle and then lay on a distinctly annoying horn for several seconds. If there was no movement after 30 seconds or so, the person would get out of the pickup and write a ticket. But once in a while, a car’s owner would come scurrying out of one of the shops or houses and move their car before a ticket was issued.

When I described the interesting methodology to Colleen, she observed that East Coasters have “a rough kindness about them, unlike the civil rudeness one finds on the west coast.” I thought that summoned it up nicely. In spite of the density and intensity, you’re given a shot at correcting your mistakes, however brief. In San Francisco, the parking enforcers would look you dead in the eye and write the ticket anyway.

(2025-05-07 correction: our hotel was in North Bergen, not Newark, but it was still very Jersey-esque)

My sister woke up with the beginnings of sinus infection, so off we went to a nearby urgent care clinic in hopes of medicating it into submission. I wandered the nearby streets while she waited to see the doctor, then we made our way to Vale’s Kafe a block away for a breakfast that even a tree-hugging Mill Valley resident would find satisfactory.

The flight from San Francisco to Newark had already been delayed 30 minutes when we checked in at SFO, which meant a 90-minute layover at EWR would now be an hour-long wait before taking off for Dubai. Going through security went smoothly, leaving us plenty of time to get breakfast before boarding the Boeing 777. Even though we were in boarding group 3 of 5, the overhead bins on the plane were full before we even made it through the gate, and carry-ons with wheels were being checked. A woman in front of me with a large backpack was forced to check it, and I worried that I would face the same fate, but I managed to make it onto the plane with my worldly belongings still in hand. My backpack took up most of the space under the seat in front of me, with just enough room for my to feet to avoid being uncomfortable.

As the plane filled, there were announcements about repairs to a clogged lavatory that would delay our departure by 15 minutes, but not to worry, we would make up the time in the air. The repairman had to go and fetch another tool and return to the plane, turning 15 minutes into 30. 45 minutes later came the disappointing news that the lavatory could not be unclogged, and so we would just take to the skies with a busted loo. A few minutes after that, victory over the clog was declared, the repairman packed up his tools, the door was sealed, and we taxied onto the runway. Our scheduled 90-minute buffer in Newark was now 0.

The plane felt like it was doing its utmost to make up the lost time, but weather was working against us. Three times, the turbulence was severe enough that the pilot requested the flight attendants to return to their seats, forcing them to quickly maneuver a beverage cart down the narrow aisles as they did so. During one of the bouts of turbulence, an elderly Asian woman who apparently did not speak English got up from her seat and wandered slowly down the aisle with the flight attendants hollering that she must return to her seat, which she eventually did. Somewhere near Lake Erie we encountered a headwind, and not long after the plane began its slow descent into the rainy gloom that hung over most of New England.

The glow from the lights on the ground got brighter and brighter as we dropped in altitude, and it felt like the plane was taking forever to get below the murk. Suddenly all the freeways and warehouses and parking lots emerged from below, closer than they are when I look out the windows of the 25th-floor office I work from in San Francisco. The pilot set the hulking plane down on the tarmac like a mother putting her baby to bed, and palpable relief swept through the cabin as we taxied to the terminal. The flight attendants made their usual arrival announcements, but added a special request at the end that everyone wait to get up from their seats until the 22 people on board with urgent connections to Athens, Porto and Dubai be allowed to deplane first. It only sort of worked.

My sister made it off the plane first, and greeted me with the disheartening news that we had missed our fight to Dubai – departing a mere two gates way – by about 10 minutes. Text messages flooded my phone, first notifying me that my SFO flight was late, then welcoming me to Newark, then apologizing that I had arrived late. We were a little flummoxed when we were handed a business card and told that scanning it was the means by which we would be rearranging our itinerary. It would have been much more reassuring to speak with a human, but I’ll begrudgingly admit that the technology solution was both confusing and effective. It wasn’t long before I received an email containing a link to book complimentary hotel rooms and meals, and in three taps it was all taken care of. An additional phone call to the hotel brought a shuttle to the airport, which we boarded and rode along endless freeways passing over and through endless warehouses and container yards, until we finally arrived at our hotel. The electrical closet made a mysterious buzzing sound, and the lights in the hallways seemed to flicker occassionally, but the rooms were tidy and quiet. At midnight my head hit the pillow and sleep swallowed me up.

(Note: the image above is a still from the movie Blade Runner, so it’s not literally what Newark looks like, but it’s a lot what Newark looks like)

Clothes & Sundries

1. 1 pair of pants
2. Deck shoes that only middle-aged white men would wear
3. Ginger chews, to ward off seasickness
4. Gas station sunglasses that have seen three oceans
5. Salty bucket hat
6. Neoprene gel kneepads
7. SPF 50+ Blue Lizard Sensitive Mineral Sunscreen with Zinc Oxide
8. Three travel packs of tissues, because you never know…
9. Brand new sailing gloves
10. 1 pair of socks
11. 2 UPF 50+ Fishing Hoodies, including Coda souvenir
12. Old Spice Original deodorant
13. 2 disposable razors
14. Shaving cream
15. Toothbrush
16. Nail trimmers
17. Moleskin
18. Toothpaste
19. Hotel bar soap
20. Hotel shampoo
21. 2 “dress” t-shirts
22. The best water shoes ever made (sold at Costco for $12 in 2015 and never again)
23. Swim trunks
24. Long-sleeved shirt
25. 2 pairs of cotton shorts
26. 5 pairs of boxer briefs
27. 1 lucky Steve Zissou t-shirt

Gear & Supplies

1. Canon Photura 35-105mm f/2.8-6.6
2. 2x Ilford HPS Plus 400 B&W 36-exposure film
3. Olympus Air A01 with M.Zuiko 14-48mm f/3.5-5.6 lens
4. Foldable reading glasses in hard case
5. Composition book for deep thoughts
6. 2x 1.75 reading glasses
7. M.Zuiko 45mm f/1.8 prime lens
8. Bluetooth earbuds
9. NEMA-15 powerstrip with Type-C and Type-M conversion
10. SanDisk MP3 player
11. 1 tripod/selfie-stick combo
12. 2 Canon NB-11L rechargeable batteries with charger
13. inc. R2 0.7mm rollerball pen
14. Reading material
15. 2022 Midnight M2 Macbook Air
16. Charger for Light L16 camera
17. iPhone charging cable with cube
18. Charger for M2 Macbook Air
19. Micro B USB cable
20. Light L16 52MP camera
21. Canon Powershot SX410IS
22. Underwater iPhone case

Luggage