arriving.



there is nothing that screams
ROB ME
louder than
walking through brooklyn
at 3am
with a rollie suitcase.

now given that crown heights isn't the hood,
and in fact
during the daytime
the area is quite nice.
the streets are alive with music blasting from boomboxes,
the rumble of subway trains underground,
kids playing in the sun.
but at night time...
lets just say the bulletproof windows at popeyes
aren't there because of the killer biscuits.

maybe i'm giving myself too big of a head start in mentally preparing myself for my eventual move to the big apple, but over the past few trips to ny i've learned to scoff at "tourists."
oh, look at them
with their fanny packs
and their cargo shorts.

i, of course, am not a tourist.
i know the difference between local and express.

but then again, it's much more difficult for me to blend in
when i'm in brooklyn
and it's 3am
and i have a rollie suitcase.

as i trek through brooklyn, i try to keep it real to the streets. i don't really know what that means, especially since i was raised in the suburbs. but i get this particular urge especially when i walk through the areas that i've come to know through rap. it's that bit of digital fantasy that has come to write normal nooks and neighborhoods into infamy. get to feel all special, like i've walked the footsteps of some legendary land. yeah, so i was kickin' it at *ahem* bed-stuy... extra points if you act and talk about it nonchalantly.

therefore,
as i walk through brooklyn
at 3am
in my rollie suitcase,
most of the perspiration on my forehead is from the humidity, i'm sure. 15 minutes into my late-night excursion, i realize that i've been going in the wrong direction for the past four avenues. i heave my mammoth luggage in a u-turn across the toiled pavement, cringing at how un-slick my entrance into the community is. the horrid cackle of my abused luggage wheels bellow through the silent brigade of apartment buildings so horrendously, i might as well be dragging a dying walrus. i doddle my way to kelly's spot, where sweet sweet sleep awaits. as i pass the bus stop that i had just bustled past five minutes ago (while i was going the wrong way), a dweller who has been keeping fixed glazed eyes on me breaks the silence. "awwwww are you lost?" it's 3am, but it's not too dark to see his lips pout, tilting his head like how one pities a puppy that's just pissed on itself. he means well, but now i just feel hella un-hiphop. "no, i'm fine," i dart back, feeling utterly invalid. i'll have to choose another night to practice being a bucktown native.

for one reason or another, i seem to pull off this "fitting in" thing a lot better in chinatown. i attribute this not only to the higher density of chinese people, but also the striking popularity of rollie suitcases.




of course, all of this late night bk romping wasn't planned. in fact, i had mapped out my flight perfectly, for me to arrive at the nice ripe hour of 10:30pm. with only a half-hour train ride to kelly's spot, i was prepped to be out parlaying with my east coast homeslices by midnight at the latest. much of this was made in consideration of ill-lit's last trip, in which dahlak, nico, and i (all equipped with rollie suitcases, of course) waddled into a late-night fried chicken spot in harlem to the welcoming comment of a local customer, who took one look at us and heaved, "oh hell no." but for real though, there's no fooling anyone that i remotely come from any what which side of new york. not with my cartoony pf flyers, jeans that are almost emo (but not), and "hella's" gurgling out my lips every 45 seconds. i'm so obviously californian, people smell it even before i rise from the subway station. i might as well be carrying around a surfboard and tofu shake.

but that's beyond the point. the point is, i would've arrived at 11pm instead of 3am, had i not missed my flight. now usually when i miss my flights, i find a way to blame the airport, either for having too long of a line, or not making it clear when the check-in time had to be, or being too far from where i was sleeping the night before, but this time it was for real, my fault. what makes it worse is the extreme feeling of pride and bravado i felt through my innards beforehand. in the morning i had kept myself well-hydrated with plenty of water, finished packing early, and even made a stamp in my "good friend" card by picking up mr. stephen to the airport. we arrived at the oakland international airport a smooooove 45 minutes early.

adriel: (after punching confirmation code into the machine twice and it not working) i've punched the confirmation code into the machine twice and it's not working.

woman at the counter: let me see your boarding pass.

(woman glances at boarding pass, then raises her eyes at adriel. her glares burn through him.)

woman at the counter: ok, this is the oakland airport. you're flying out of san francisco.

adriel: ohhhhhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

woman at the counter: yeah.

fortunately, i was able to book a later flight from sf and hop BART to catch it in time.

unfortunately, i had forgotten just how hydrated i was, and by the time i reached the airport i was ready to explode in my pants (not in the sexy way...in case there is a sexy way).



departing.



it all starts at coney island. 1am, and it's the first time it's been chilly during your whole trip. you wish the daft punk show had lasted longer, but the beach isn't a bad alternative. 5 hours until your flight out. you don't plan to sleep, which can be a good thing since the greasy chicken philly sandwhich you're engulfing is going to take a looooooooong time to digest. in this group of four, it's the most chinese crew you've ever found yourself in in new york. you had saved enough california green for a show as intense as daft punk, and as you convene along the oceanside gasping at one-hitters it feels a bit like high school...well, if there had been a beach by where you grew up...and if you had chinese friends back then. it's not like it makes a huge difference what ethnicity everyone is anyway, there aren't any giggles around cantonese colloquialisms or sharing of white rabbit candy. but random bindings arise; reassuring nods when you share your aspirations for attending the beijing olympics, karen asking if the mini kubric bear swinging from her phone antenna makes her look like she just came to america, like, last week.

during the train ride toward the airport, you're in an epic battle with your fatigue. you fight your eyelids open in fear of missing your transfer, replaying the time you were so caught up in that nina simone article in fader that you didn't look up until you were already in the outer breaches of queens. this time, the train gets lost for you. the F suddenly mutates into the G. you panic, lead yourself and belongings on a mini exodus, flee up the stairs, and find yourself, once again,
in the middle of brooklyn
at 3am
with your rollie suitcase.

but it's okay. you're unfamiliar with the neighborhood, but even at the night's most secret hour it looks more like the "mad about you" new york, and less like the "mobb deep" new york. but really, who's to say which one is scarier?

in new york, people like to stare at tunnels. though you're sure some people just have an affinity for big black holes, your observation is more along the lines of people liking to think that, the harder they stare, the sooner they see the train, the faster it'll come. and so you stare. at trains rolling past on the other end of the platform. your ears perk to rail's sighs and echoing wails of cars not meant for you. you check your watch every 20 minutes, to realize that it's actually only been 2 minutes since the last time you looked. at long last, a muted yellow glow from the tunnel soon becomes a triumphant entrance, orchestrated by the headlights, shrieks of metal scraping metal, and presence of other humans behind the smokey glass windows. hesitation. but the digital sign on the side of the train doesn't say "to JFK"...it's not the right train.

the train rolls past, but only a little before a guy sticks his head out the window yelling, "this is the only train out!" ok, that was the right train. oh well, another 45 minutes of utterly excruciating boredom never hurt anyone.