Punctures and bourbon

A new day dawns and I wake early. First appointment is with a local laundromat, where I take my small Ziplock bag of dirty clothes for a service wash. The lad behind the counter and I struggle to communicate.

Me : "When will it be ready"
Him : "After"
Me :"After what?"
Him (looking confused) : "Tarde"
Me : "Afternoon?"
Him : "Si"

Today is my appointment with the Customs and Border Protection people at JFK. Getting to any of the airports here is a real slog - sharply contrasted with the Edinburgh tram or the Heathrow Express.

I had to take the D, the E and the Air Train. It took about two and a half hours but was not without some light relief. Four guys got on, 2 adults, a 10 year old and a 5 year old and did some excellent break dancing- flips, head spins, twirling round the poles. Nobody seemed interested.

On the E I thought my jinx was back - we stopped because the emergency brake had been applied. But they quickly worked out that it was a signal error and we were away within ten minutes. Then, at the Air Train, we had to get off after one stop and take a bus into the airport - no explanation offered, but also no $5 fare charged.

My interview when it arrived was over in minutes. I have no idea why they even needed me to go since they must have dozens of copies of my fingerprints already. Anyway, I am now enrolled in the Global Entry program. Whoopee.

The return journey is less crowded and I realise I haven't eaten anything all day. So, I head to Little Italy - not the downtown one, but the "original" one in the Bronx. Antonio's has a great reputation and, by the time I've walked there, it's packed. They find me a place at the bar and engage me in classic banter. One guy promises to shoot himself if Trump gets elected.

The menu is standard Italian fare. It's not cheap, but it is good. The Montepulciano is excellent. The grappa also. And by the end of the evening all of us sitting eating at the bar are conversing merrily.

Back at the laundromat my clothes are ready. Beautifully folded, with little cardboard strips holding the socks together. But they're in a thin plastic sack and the Ziplock bag I brought them in is nowhere to be seen. It's still hard to communicate - the first language here is Spanish, English very much coming second. After a noisy phone call to the lady who did my wash they find my bag in the trash, covered in coffee. They haul it out, wipe it down and I'm good to go.

I walk back through the warm, dark, noisy suburb - Latino dance music blaring and the occasional whiff of pot. In a deli I buy a large can of Crazy Stallion lager and a small bag of plantain chips for cheap. I let myself back into my digs, unlocking and relocking each of the four gates/doors that are deemed necessary. I drink my beer, eat my chips and fall into a crinkly sleep.