Cows to Concrete

Seattle to New York.  Not a painless journey in the least bit, but then, that’s how it’s always been with any American airlines: “Discomfort or your money back.”  Unless of course, you’re flying first class, and in that case, let’s meet for coffee (I’ll be your best friend).  My first flight from Seattle to New York two years ago was a disaster, not to mention an omen of future disasters, when the flight was delayed because of rain (in Seattle? What a surprise) and then promptly on my arrival to the city, the discovery that my bags had decided to stay behind–super.  Days later my bags arrived, worse for wear and in need of a drink–a feeling I knew too well after only a couple of days in the city.  In the past two years, my aeronautic experiences have involved screaming children, awkward seatmates (you know the kind–oblivious to personal space, halitosis to rival the Hudson, and the need to know EVERYTHING about you), armed robbery (from a Las Vegas slot machine), and sexual assault (I will never again fly with an expired license–the airport security are a little too friendly for my tastes).  The flying, however, was not the only derisory experience to happen upon me in my move to adulthood.  Oh no, New York treats transplants like New Yorkers treat cockroachs: a little West Side Story without the dancing, mixed with a can of Raid–get ready to rumble.