Tourism

Mi silla en El Alambique, Isla Verde (Puerto Rico)

after i come back home from going home, i get this melancholy limbo of a feeling : that i have left a home behind in search of a home that is not there and yet is familiar and welcoming and soothing and incomplete for the lost years and the lost house because i have no real place to be home but the few couches and extra beds to crash on my families places and even my mother's house is this foreign, mold controlled zone in which my lungs collapse, my heart stops with the toxic molds that makes me feel unwelcomed and pushes me into the asceptic living of hotels with their climate controlled hells drowing the sound of coquis and the rustling of platain and palm trees in the middle of the night and making my body remember how to go to sleep.

after i come back home from going home, the place i come back to is so familiar and yet so removed missing the little bit of heart and soul and pain and laughter i left back in spanish with its ay benditos and ave marias and its tu sabes and its bochincheo with arroz con gandules and alcapurrias and habichuelas and sancocho de medio día and el cafecito para empatar.

I am sitting here on a runway at La Guardia airport, looking out the window and seeing about 5 other airplanes idling on the tarmac. I am in American Airlines flight 313 allegedly en route to Chicago. I emphasize the word *allegedly* due to the fact that our being sequestered here comes after a one hour delay at the gate. So we were one hour late when we boarded, have been waiting for an hour and now comes word that we will be sitting here for another 2 hours.

With no food.

With no beverages.

With no way out.

To say I am furious it is to put it mildly.

There are people here who woke up at 3AM to make it in time for the pre-boarding harassment that passes as a security check. I woke up at 5AM, got in a bit before 7AM and was forced to check my carry-on after a about half-an-hour of standing in the mess that American Airlines calls "the service counter".

After that mess, I had to wait in line for another 15 minutes to get to the gate. Not to actually go through it but to get to the gate. Once there, a Latino woman found it in her heart to question the validity of not just my passport but also my New York City issued driver's license. Yes. She didn't believe either was real --and boy do I have tons to say in another post about Latinos and African Americans working as security personnel in airports.

Once in the gate I had to wait another 30 minutes or so to go through it. Me and my 2 bags, computer and terrorist loving sneakers.