By Scott Graber
It is Friday, and we’re standing in the White Plains, N.Y., airport waiting to board the 12:30 Breeze Flight into Savannah.
The airport at White Plains is small, smaller than Savannah, and we’re actually standing in a hallway, chock-a-block with 60 other would be passengers; all of us worried that there won’t be any space left in the overhead bins when our group is finally invited to board.
The crowded hallway also has five folks in wheelchairs — they get priority. Then there are those who need extra assistance; followed by active duty military; those who bought a slightly wider seat; and those card-carrying enrollees in some kind of early-boarding club.
The wheel chair attendants, the personnel who scan one’s boarding pass, and other vest wearing officials all come with walkie-talkies. This cacophony of amplified conversation pin-balls off the walls competing with the official, overriding, interrupting announcements saying “We’re looking for five volunteers who will …”
“Five volunteers for what?” Susan asks.
“Usually that means they’re overbooked and need people to give up their seats.”
“Are we overbooked?”
“I don’t think so. I think that’s the flight into Reagan.”
But I’m really not sure about any of these announcements — they’re usually delivered in a jumbled Spanglish that often breaks into incoherence before the punch line. From the perplexed look on the faces of my fellow Savannah-bound passengers, nobody’s sure about anything this morning.
Susan and I have been in Stamford, Conn., for the past five days watching our grandson take his first tentative steps. For months he has crawled with the intensity of a Viet Cong, satchel-dragging sapper; but last week began staggering around the smallish, downtown apartment where my son, his wife and our grandson live.
Downtown Stamford presents a landscape of sterile, dystopian, blue-tinted glass boxes that are home to corporations like Deloitte, Synchrony, Indeed, Nestle and Cuisinart. Unlike Manhattan, the sidewalks are empty of coffee-toting commuters, white-painted mimes and intimidated tourists.
I think this has something to do with the fact that most drive to work, park their Lexus in underground parking garage, eat their beet salad in a corporate, teak-trimmed dining room with a view of Long Island Sound. These corporate folk don’t do much street-level walking and after dark the downtown is largely empty.
But there is one street, Bedford Street, that looks like it belongs in Paris or Pisa. It comes with mature trees that canopy the pavements and shade outdoor diners who take their pasta. pulled pork tacos and thinly sliced prosciutto al fresco. And it was at Bari, Hudson Social, Tutti Pazzi where we took our roasted cauliflower, our filet mignon crostini with caramelized onions and Gorgonzola cream sauce.
And it was on Bedford Street where we took our grandson for hours-long lunches where the waiters and waitresses would fawn over the “bambino” like he was the long awaited heir to the Medici throne. At one point, well into a second Sangiovese, I said, “I think I know that line of buildings just across the street.”
“How could you? Did you ever have a reason to come here?”
“I think I was measured for my wedding tuxedo somewhere along that street.”
And so, after finishing our wine we crossed the street and, sure enough, there was a tuxedo rental shop where a man, my age, was measuring the instep of a customer.
“I think I was measured by you (for my wedding tuxedo) over 50 years ago.” I said as I approached the kneeling tailor.
“No,” he replied. “You were measured by my father.”
The resulting conversation confirmed that his father had. indeed, suited me up for my wedding; and that his father had since died; and he had inherited the business.
“Actually, I brought the business from my dad,” he said. “He was a businessman from the get go. What can I say.”
Once I flew on airplanes — from DC-6 (propeller) transports to Air Afrique’s Airbus A-310 — without worry of finding space in the overhead bins. I flew kind of hoping for a problem in Gander or Cotonou; or spending an extra day in Port of Spain; and getting a chit that would allow me to replace my lost clothing in a shop in Kingston, Jamaica.
Alas, I’ve lost my sense of adventure — my hopes, dreams and aspiration distilled down to an overwhelming desire for an “on time arrival” and dreamless sleep in my own bed.
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
