November 14, 2012
Eleventh floor of the Edison Hotel, the rooms are ragged, but not so tiny as I’m used to here. The flight was without incident, except in the land of dreams, of which there were many. The woman beside me was eating green onion potato chips, and the smell made me sick, so the only option was sleep. The plane approached Manhattan from the cloudless south, so all the majesty of it was laid out before us. The lady at the shuttle bus station sold me a round-trip ticket for the price of one-way. She said, “For you it’s sixteen dollars.” I didn’t realize she meant that until I looked at the receipt later. So, already a passage of fortune . . . .
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