layover

Getting there was definitely not half the fun.

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’35 hours to reach West Papua. Even more to get back.’

I watched this movie last night called Red Eye. It’s a pretty good thriller about a hotel worker thwarting a terrorist on a night flight. It’s not a new movie; you can tell because a plot twist involves one of those seatback phones you could activate with a credit card. Remember those? I was always too intimidated to use one, and now I’ll never get a chance.

I did get plenty of chances to mess around with my iPhone. (Plus watch many movies and plow through scads of e-books.) Since it took us forever and a day to get to New Guinea. We left (very early) on a Thursday morning, and didn’t get there till Sunday. Granted, we did cross the international dateline and “lose” a day. But still. Let’s just say I laid waste to the Connections archive.

Me, after landing at one of many airports on this interminable trip

But hey. I just re-read that opening, and I sound kind of elderly and crabby. Let’s lighten the mood, shall we, by mentioning that today is The Child and the SIL’s wedding anniversary. Yup, it’s been three years since that landmark Canadian fete. (Which you can relive through “Two Weddings are Better than One.”)

A lot has happened since August 13, 2022

What on earth prompted Dude Man and me to put up with two back-to-back eleven hour flights (to Istanbul then to Jakarta) plus another eight hours to Biak (with a three-hour layover in Makassar)? The birds of paradise, that’s what. Basically, if you want to see the birds of paradise (or BOPs as they are affectionately called in birder shorthand), you have to go to New Guinea. Because New Guinea is where they live. Oh, there are a couple of BOPs you can find in Northeastern Australia. But for the creme de la creme (or plume de la plume) of BOPs, Papua is where you’ve got to go.

Here’s New Guinea, with some of our BOP spots circled

Incidentally, if, like me, you are “of a certain age,” you may remember “antimacassars,” I entertained our fellow layover victims by telling about how Makassar was where a popular hair oil was produced back in the Victorian era. This hair oil became so popular that these little fabric doilies — antimacassars — were invented to protect furniture from getting all yucky with it. My Gramma Peterson was an antimacassar fan. She also liked magazine racks. And pipe stands.

Outside our hotel in Biak after breakfast on Sunday — three days after leaving NY

Oh well. The Makassar layover was endured, our last flight was flown — and we made it to West Papua. Biak, to be exact. Where we spent the next few days tracking birds and collecting bug bites. One of these days I will get The Dude to extract his very wonderful bird photos from his very good camera. (In the meantime, you can learn about BOPs here: birds of paradise and feast your eyes here: photos of birds of paradise.) I will leave you with a promise to get back to you with more on our New Guinean adventure soon. Oh. One last thing. I drove over to see Anthony, my haircutter, for a much-needed pruning today and he told me that his father, who served on New Guinea during WWII, would have been amazed at our going there. “You went to New Guinea?!? On purpose?!?” he no doubt would have remarked.

At last! Our first birding morning. Note Dude Man’s camo-camera (pics to come!)

Amagansett, New York. August 2025

 

 

 

 

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023