Touching Down

At about 9 PM last night I was not a happy traveler; my flight to Paris out of JFK - scheduled for 5:50 PM - had been delayed because of mechanical problems (American Airlines, did you really have to ask?) and it appeared that it might be canceled altogether. Jumping another air bus was out of the question, because I had already checked a bag, and security wouldn't have allowed it. An earlier AA flight already had been canceled; all told, the airline had four planes grounded. I was looking at arriving at Roland Garros about about the time Roger Federer strolls out onto Centre Court to kick off his Wimbledon title defense.

The anxiety of travelers whose plans are disrupted is powerful and irrational. You have your garden variety ranters: This is the worst airline ever, you people are the pits of the world! , the minutiae freaks: If we leave after midnight, will we still get the breakfast meal service? , the opportunists: If you need to put us up overnight, can we cash in the voucher instead of going to the hotel?, the apocalyptos: But you don't understand. . . if I don't get to Paris tomorrow the universe as we know it will come to an end, and even the comedians:  So this American Airlines pilot walks into a bar. . .

As you well know, that one ends. . . If God wanted to the plane to fly, he would have written Continental, or United, on the tailfin!

After a while, I had to feel for the gate agents. How many ways can you say "The supervisors will call us at eight PM to tell us if the flight can go or not." Seemed pretty straightforward, if annoying. But nobody was content to sit and wait. I repaired to the bar, expecting the worst, but lo and behold, they decided to turn the inbound plane from Paris right around to get us here just seven or eight hours late, and I  breathed a sigh of relief: Just as long as they remember to gas her up. . .

But all is well in the world now. More or less. I'm at the Pullman-Sofitel, which is has that Clockwork Orange Contemporary decor, and appears to be situated in something like an industrial park, without the industry. The bathroom is all marble and tile and slippery surfaces, but there's no soap dish in either the sink or shower. Of course, the shower has a chic glass pane instead of a door, except it only extends about halfway along the tub, so even if you're careful (which I'm not), the floor invariably becomes a skating rink. It's an altogether amazing bathroom offering multiple ways to sustain a serious head injury. What else can I tell you? Three-hundred bucks a night and the water pressure sucks. Maybe it's Perrier instead of tap water. . .

just got set up here in the press center, in a pretty good neighborhood: I'm surrounded by the usual suspects:  Bud Collins, Sandy Harwitt, Tom Tebbutt,  Matt Cronin, Kamakshi Tandon, et al. And I touched base with Rosangel, whose on flight from London was delayed. She was in a cab heading for Roland Garros just about the time I arrived.

Anyway, while I'll keep an eye on Novak Djokovic and Rafael Nadal today, I'll probably post on Jeremy Chardy, who's last match on Suzanne Lenglen stadium.

Back to you later. . .