John Delach

The executives and chief engineers at Volkswagen (VW) face a self-imposed crisis of  that may permanently cripple the world’s second largest auto maker if not destroy it. If that happens, it will catapult VW into a new category of ruined businesses completely surpassing other monumental failures like Arthur Andersen, Lehman Brothers and Enron. Herr doctor Martin Winterkorn, who was CEO from the time that the dastardly deed began in 2009 until he was forced to resign on September 23, 2015 would become the butt of semi-apolitically correct jokes joining the Fuhrer with ridicule like this:

Did you know the German people actually hated Hitler for all of the stupid things he did? Like losing the war!

I will try to recap what this crisis is all about for those of you who have been too busy playing fantasy football, tuning in to the latest Kim, Kourtney or Khloe Kardashian dilemma, exploit or scandal or crying in your beer after the Mets lost a brutal World Series in five games.

Jack Ewing reporting for The New York Times wrote:

After he became chief executive in 2007, Mr. Winterkorn declared his determination to make Volkswagen the world’s largest carmaker overtaking Toyota. He was known for his intense attention to the technical fine points of the vehicles the company produced.

“A lot of things were subordinated to the desire to be faster, higher, larger,” (the successor CEO, Matthias Muller) said in a conference call with analysts and reporters…”

Mr. Winterkorn’s management style, coupled with a relentless drive for growth, is cited by some critics…as a contributing factor to the scandal by impeding open communication and perhaps causing subordinates to cheat rather than admit failure.

And cheat they did on an unprecedented scale. One of VW’s goals was to develop clean, green diesels that …were environmentally responsible while delivering excellent fuel economy.

This turned out to be a fool’s errand; such a diesel being as mythical as “clean coal.” Instead of addressing the problem head-on, certain company executives and engineers chose to develop software that would cheat on control tests by lowering oxide emissions to acceptable levels making full use of pollution controls. Once the engines passed, the software shut down providing excellent fuel economy but producing as much as 40 times the allowable limits for nitrogen oxide.

The possibility of fraud was discovered by the Environmental Protection Agency (E.P.A.) which road tests vehicles instead of using European static laboratory tests. In May 2014, diesels in a 2012 Jetta and a 2013 Passat repeatedly emitted high levels of nitrogen oxide. Finally, in August of 2015, the E.P.A. stated that it would not certify VW’s 2015 diesels until the discrepancies were explained. On August 18^th a VW executive finally came clean.

The German Government is forcing VW to recall 8.5 million vehicles in Europe and 500,000 in the United States. VW is estimating the cost at €6.7 billion not including fines, penalties and legal fees. The fine imposed by the Federal Government will likely be greater than that imposed on BP for the spill in the Gulf of Mexico as this event was deliberate and not accidental.

Further and even more devastating than the monetary cost, the Justice Department’s investigation could conceivably lead to criminal charges against both individuals and against VW as a corporate entity if culpability reaches that high. If that transpires, people will likely go to prison and VW as now constituted, would cease to exist.

Be assured that intense anxiety has descended upon company headquarters in Wolfsburg, Germany that will not be lifted any time soon. Is Gotterdammerung at hand in Wolfs- burg?

I’d first like to get something off of my chest: What really upsets me about the flock of GOP wannabees running for President is how timid and flaccid they appear in the face of Trump, the here-to-fore front-runner and his belligerent rhetoric. For God’s sake, stop referring to him as Mr. Trump! Call him Trump or Don. Piss him off for a change. When was the last time he called you Mr. Bush or Ms Fiorina or Dr. Carson? And you don’t have to get down in the mud with him either. Think back to the Reagan – Carter debate when Jimmy rattled on and on milking a point to demonstrate his superior knowledge and intellect. How did Ronnie handle it: “Oh, there you go again.”

Thank you. Now please be patient while I climb down from this soap box. I have to be careful with this fake hip.

Okay, with that out of my system, New York, New York. Thinking about the Big Apple made me think of Trump who is in many ways a consummate fighting New Yorker. He wears the same cloak as Rudy Giuliani or my friend, Peter King. They epitomize the spirit of the following “light bulb joke:”

How many New Yorkers does it take to change a light bulb?

None of your f**king business.

Being a life-long New Yorker, I admit how full of ourselves we can be but like loud-mouth bullies everywhere, the right combination of attitude and vocabulary can quickly deflate us. Our arch-rivals who best us more times than not are London based Brits. They master the understatement with their stiff upper lips as they muddle through while waiting stoically in seemingly endless queues. I once watched as a matronly British Airway’s flight attendant stop my evil, loud-mouthed twin right in his tracks with her censure: “Must you constantly be this bombastic?”

The one card that knowledgeable Brits can play on us any time they wish is to compare London taxis to New York cabs. Usually, they are so subtle that they let us walk right into their trap permitting visiting New Yorkers to gush on and on about how great London taxis are and how terrific the drivers are:

“Your taxis are so clean, so roomy, so great!”

“Your drivers are so knowledgeable, so English, so terrific!”

The Brits actually preen as we walk into the trap and lock the cage behind us. Some of us only dig the hole deeper observing: “You know, once we had decent taxis, the Checker.”

Balderdash, sure the Checker was roomy but it moved like a tank, stiffly jarring passengers’ bones with every pothole the driver hit. This ice box in winter could sit five if two unfortunate souls were willing to sit on minuscule metal jump seats that unfolded from the metal floor. The worst cabs were around in the bad days of the 1970s, the Dodge Coronet. No leg room, no ass room, three in the back made it feel like a clown car. Awful, awful.

While no one in authority can improve our army of immigrant drivers, the city recently introduced a new specialty Nissan mini-van taxi. It is supposed to be the cure-all for all of our taxi woes as it replaces the current assortment of cars, SUVs and regular mini vans now in the fleet. Time, weather and the awful pounding received in New York’s infamous streets will eventually tell the tail of their suitability.

As a mechanic once asked my wife, Mary Ann, who drove a Buick daily to P.S. 121 in South Ozone Park, Queens: “Where do you drive this car, East Beirut?”

Monday, October 12, 2015 was Columbus Day, an official federal holiday since 1934. Curiously, Franklin D. Roosevelt declared the second Monday in October to be Columbus Day in the same year that Benito Mussolini also deemed it to be a national holiday in his Fascist controlled nation. This immediately led to bloody confrontations in New York City pitting Il Duce followers against anti-Fascists.

World War II ended those confrontations and Columbus Day evolved into a source of Italian- American pride. This became especially true in New York City where the annual parade up Fifth Avenue empowers our Italian-American brothers and sisters to gather, march and participate with the same spirit (albeit with less alcohol) as Irish do on St. Patrick’s Day, the Germans on Steuben Day, the Poles on Kosciusko Day, Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, Jews, etc, etc on their days.

This annual affair attracts every politician wanting to make a statement or show his or her face. The 2015 edition attracted both Gov. Andrew Cuomo and Comrade Mayor Bill Deblasio who marched separately, of course, because they hate each other.

Granted though, over the years with cultural changes and flex days at work Columbus’ significance has diminished. Many New Yorkers treat it as another day; you’re either off, or not off. In the Northeast, if you’re off, you may consider it as a long weekend to travel up into New England to see the fall foliage.

But still, it’s a national holiday. Growing up in 1950’s America, I remember, when Columbus was important enough that the Dominican nuns at St. Aloysius elementary school taught us to memorize (in part):

In fourteen hundred in ninety two,

Columbus sailed the ocean blue…

Have you heard though that Columbus has an infamous record? Oh dear, in South Dakota, they have replaced the explorer and have been celebrating “Native American Day” on the second Monday in October since 1990.

This year, in Alaska, Gov. Bill Walker’s executive proclamation re-named Chris’ day as “Indigenous Peoples Day.”  In so doing, Alaska joined at least nine US cities celebrating this new man-made holiday. These cities include Albuquerque, NM, Anadarko, OK, Portland, OR, St. Paul MN and two cities in Washington; Olympia and Seattle.

Oklahoma City is next up ready to make the same decision. Sarah Adams-Cornell, a local OK City activist made this plea to rid her city of Columbus: “This is something that I’ve struggled with for a long time. The fact that our country, our state and our city celebrate this holiday around this man who murdered and enslaved and raped indigenous people and decimated an entire population.”

Now that’s one hell of an indictment to throw against this mythic explorer. I wonder how much bail would have been set if he was still around?

And yet, the renowned historian, Samuel Eliot Morison, thought otherwise and described Columbus in his epic biography published in 1955, Admiral of the Ocean Sea:

“He had his faults and his defects, but they were largely the defects of the qualities that made him great–indomitable will, his superb faith in God and his own mission as the Christ-bearer to lands beyond the seas, his stubborn persistence despite neglect, poverty and discouragement. But there was no flaw, no dark side to the most outstanding…of all his qualities—his seamanship.”

It would appear, this perception no longer persists. Few rise to praise Columbus much less defend him. It seems he has been marginalized and made responsible for every bad thing done to Native-Americans from the Pilgrims landing through Little Big Horn and Wounded Knee. In my opinion, wrongly so, since the record demonstrates, he never landed in mainland America.

Still, if Columbus must get the old heave-ho, should those of Italian descent be deprived of their day of rightful acclaim? I think not, but then who?

How about Gugielmo Marconi, inventor of the wireless telegraph, or Giovanni da Verazzano, the explorer whose name graces the grand suspension bridge that spans the entrance to New York Harbor, or Americus Vespucius, another renown explorer whose name the entire western World has adopted to describe themselves: North and South America.

While you think about that in your spare time, ponder this; if the person or persons who decided to name two continents after this explorer had done it correctly, the land we live in would not be America, we would live in the United States of Vespucia…frightening, but have a nice day.

Woe to the railroads operating in and out of New York’s Pennsylvania Station. The six 105-year-old tunnels, four under the East River connecting to Long Island and the two Hudson River tubes connecting to New Jersey, are in sorry shape. Two of the four East River tubes flooded during Superstorm Sandy as did both of their Hudson River cousins. Almost three years later, the track beds, wiring, signals and the concrete itself continue to deteriorate thanks to the millions of gallons of salt water that filled them for several days.

What exacerbates the problem is all of these tunnels are part of Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor and Amtrak is perpetually broke. This ugly step-child of Uncle Sam must grovel before congress for every cent of its inadequate annual budget. Unlike Amtrak, Uncle and his politicians love their two healthy offspring, those pretty twins, the airlines and the automobile / trucking industry showering them with generous gifts like highways, airports and an elaborate air traffic control system. Passenger trains remain unwanted and unloved whose early death would be a Godsend to Congress.

Like it or not, 340,000 riders move through Penn Station each and every weekday on 1,200 trains. The Long Island Railroad (LIRR) carries more than 230,000, New Jersey Transit (NJT), 80,000 and 30,000 travel on Amtrak. Eventually, a fair chunk of those LIRR riders will shift to the new East Side Access Terminal now being constructed deep under Grand Central Terminal but that traffic could be offset by proposals to bring commuters from Connecticut, Westchester and The Bronx into Penn Station on Metro North via the Hell Gate Bridge.

NJT is also clamoring for additional tracks in Penn Station as currently only 332 of their 697 daily trains can fit into their primary morning destination. Those two Hudson River tubes are barely adequate to carry their existing load and the failure of one train already leads to extensive delays. Unfortunately, an expansion of NJT service into Penn Station cannot be addressed until well past the mid-point of the Twenty-First Century.

Before it can even be considered, two new tubes must be dug under the Hudson and up until recently neither money nor sufficient political will existed to undertake this massive project. It will take at least ten years from first shovel and will cost a minimum of $14 billion. (Twenty billion dollars if an addition to Penn Station is included.) But service disruptions in these tunnels this summer have convinced Governorers Andrew Cuomo and Chris Christie to cooperate with each other and the Feds to get the ball rolling. Even when finished, congestion will not be quickly ended as the existing tunnels must then be closed for two years for a thorough refurbishment.

Meanwhile, the two damaged East River tubes will likewise be rebuilt one at a time. Strangely enough, Amtrak actually carries real commercial insurance covering loss or damage to these tunnels. But like standard property insurance it has a sub-limit for damage caused by floods. Amtrak sued for $1.1 billion on the grounds that the damage was due to a wind-driven storm surge but U.S. District Judge Jed Rakoff ruled a flood is a flood and limited liability to $125 million. Senator Chuck Schumer has proposed that the Feds allocate a grant using the Sandy storm recovery funds which Amtrak could offset by any additional money they may be awarded when they appeal Judge Rakoff’s ruling.

At last plans and concepts seem to be coalescing. Now all we need is money so if you have some spare change…brother can you spare a dime?

Foley’s NY, a Midtown pub located on the south side of East Thirty-Third Street opposite the Empire State Building courageously identifies itself as: “An Irish Pub with a Baseball Attitude.” This sports stronghold forcefully projects this message without apology or hesitation shouting it out from the saloon’s fire engine red façade, the curious bicycle mounted above it, the flags of US and the Republic of Ireland, baseball bats  substituting for door handles and a sign proclaiming: “The Bar that Banned DANNY BOY.”

All of these features reflect the attitude of its proprietor, Shaun Clancy, to set Foley’s apart from the other eateries occupying the same territory. Shaun, a bear of a man and a born saloon keeper; quick with the wit, quick with the challenge, quick with the charm and the humor. He embodies all that make the Irish special.

When Shaun set out to establish his own saloon, his goal was to combine his two greatest loves, the hospitality industry and baseball. “I wanted an Irish name that had a baseball connection. I thought about different names before I finally realized that Red Foley, (the sports writer for the New York Daily News for 34 years,) was right under my nose. I had known Red for a few years and when I proposed naming it in his honor, he replied, ‘Why me, I don’t even drink?”

Shaun replied, “All the better, now I can feed you whenever you like but I don’t have to worry about your bar bill.” Red agreed and Foley’s NY was born in 2004.

I discovered Foley’s as I was working my way toward Penn Station one afternoon returning from a Mid-town lunch. The red façade stopped me cold, the bats beckoned, I stepped inside, ordered a Guinness and the rest was history.

In the years since that day, my friend, Mike Scott and I have made it our exclusive Manhattan watering hole establishing a rapport with Shaun, his dad: Papa John, his son, Ryan, and daughter, Emma, and the bevy of mostly Irish waitresses who charm the patrons with their wit, personality and smiles.

Foley’s is a museum of sports memorabilia, both ordinary and rare ranging from bobble head figurines to uniforms with everything in between. The signature items though are Shaun’s collection of autographed baseballs numbering in the thousands. Most of the signatures concern baseball, being players, managers and coaches, scouts, front office people, writers and broadcasters. Shaun’s collection also includes famous people from other sports, actors, politicians, business and clerical VIPs. Included in the latter are baseballs tagged by Cardinals Edward Egan and Timothy Dolan.

So it wasn’t surprising that Shaun issued a challenge to all who knew him that if some one could score Pope Francis’ signature on a baseball during his visit to New York in September, Shaun would donate 1,000 meals to St. Francis Church’s out reach program. (St. Francis is a local Manhattan church two blocks from Foley’s.)

I chose to take a low path and a high path. My low path became a prank. I bought a new baseball on which I wrote:  “To Mister Clancyman: Vaya con Dios.” I signed it, “Pappa Frankie 1.”

I presented this to Shaun who accepted it without becoming overly upset.

My high road was to take a shot at seeing if the real thing could be obtained despite insane odds against it. My secret weapon was a VIP from the World Trade Center whom I know from a football tailgate group. I knew absolutely that he would see the pope when Francis traveled to the WTC Museum for an inter-faith gathering and there was a chance that this chap might meet Francis and perhaps have a private chat with him during the visit. He readily accepted this challenge calculating how to create a scenario to pull this off.

Alas, this was not to be. Every photo taken of Francis at that visit shows him being closely escorted by former mayor, Mike Bloomberg, Cardinal Dolan and his own omni-present security detail.

As my buddy reported back after the visit, “It was literally impossible to get his autograph.”

And so it went. Shaun had four or five other sources who also tried unsuccessfully to obtain Pope Francis’ moniker. Security was just too tight, extreme and with no sense of humor or of the absurd. At least we tried. Shaun, however, chose to fulfill his promise to St. Francis despite this collective inability to succeed.

God bless you, Shaun Clancy, in addition to being a great saloon proprietor, you are, my friend, a stand-up citizen.

Annabel Shapiro, the youngest daughter of my old London mate, John, recently returned from a vacation in the Canary Islands.

Known to her friends as Bel, she is both founder and operator of an award-winning,  London-based food cart known as The Bell & Brisket. In business for about two years Bel and her associates operate at both scheduled and serendipitous locations throughout greater London. They are engaged in what is known locally as “the kerb life.” While they take their food seriously, not so much themselves. For example dubbing the converted horsebox/food truck: “The Whoresbox.”

For the record, the main ingredient is brisket or as they also call it on the other side of the pond, salt beef. The brisket is hand cured locally and served on traditional boiled Jewish bagels or local rye bread with pickles, relish and cheddar melted by means of a blow torch; a nice touch.

Here is the message Bel sent to her father describing her diving experience in the Canaries:

So I went diving today, brilliant as always, but there’s a kind of etiquette involved that really makes me laugh.

At about 8:30 AM all the local dive schools converge on the same dive spot on the coast. There are standard trips the instructors take you out on so they know it like the back of their hands. What makes me laugh is that there are classic stereotypical behaviors from each school that all have their own branded vans and gear.

There are the Germans who stand there broad chested and Aryan barking orders at their group. Their kit is immaculate, gas tanks all lined up facing the same way, equipment in the sun with flippers and wet suits matching like a row of backing singers in a band. Everything perfect, slick and on time.

There are the Spanish, swarthy, tanned and sinewy like well-whittled wood, with hipster beards, tie die clothes and flip-flops. With sharp, angular faces; they are born to look good in a wet suit. They just rock up and dive on their own time; manana, manana.

Then there are us Brits. The school is run by Dave and Paul who seem to be having a competition to see who can get the biggest gut into a wet suit. Paul is winning but Dave likes a smoke and gets as many fags in as possible before he actually has to go under water. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d cracked open a can of Stella before the dive. Their van is a bit shit. The door handle came off in my hand. But they are salt of the earth and I had a great day with them. Gawd bless the Brits!          

The piece I selected for this edition is one of the last I wrote before I began this blog. Before it begins, I want to thank all of my loyal readers who have offered your wonderful comments and observations. I enjoy your responses.

Secondly, I invite readers who would like to write a guest blog to do so. I will work with you on your submissions and I will never publish a final version until you sign off on it.

Port Washington Pigeons

The Long Island Railroad is engaged in a perpetual conflict with those pigeons that inhabit their Port Washington station. It is a losing fight. Despite each new and more inventive obstacle that the LIRR erects to make the creatures’ lives uncomfortable and drive them away from their nesting spots, these dirty birds either find alternative locations to live and breed or learn to co-exist with these man-made distractions. When the railroad placed netting on the underside of the weather canopies, the pigeons moved to the canopies that cover the platforms. So the LIRR retaliated by adding spikes to the tops of the rafters the flying rats were using for their homes. Having lost this spot, some birds merely shifted their nests to the tops of the message boards and television monitors that dot the platforms while others simply maneuvered between these spikes. It is almost a certainty that they will find new locations once the LIRR blocks these spots.

The pigeons have been residents of the station for so long that they have accommodated themselves to this world finding new ways to feed themselves. They understand the pace of the day avoiding the hordes of “Dashing Dans” and “Dashing Janes” as these commuters hustle through the station during the morning and evening rushes.

But, between 10 am and 4 pm, they take advantage of the relatively slow pace of activity to find their daily fare. When a train arrives from Penn Station and the passengers depart, the doors remain open for New York City bound passengers. The birds confidently approach the open doors and hop on board individual coaches to bob and weave under the seats prowling for any discarded food. Some uninitiated arriving passengers can be startled by their appearance especially when a bobbing head appears as if from nowhere beneath their seat. Others try to drive them from the train by standing up and waving newspapers at them but this foolishness just causes a commotion for everybody by having birds taking flight in these confined quarters. Veteran riders learn to live with this invasion and the pigeons take little notice of them.

The pigeons have developed a sense of when the doors will close and when they should abandon their hunt to exit the train. It may be the announcements that are always made shortly before departure, simply pure timing or even the warning bell that signals imminent departure.

But every now and then a preoccupied pigeon misses “last call” becoming an involuntary westbound passenger. The captive bird takes this in stride, calmly making its way to a door located on the left hand side of the coach. There the bird waits patiently for the doors to open once the train arrives at Plandome, the next station on the line. A quick hop off the train and on to the platform, the bird usually checks the platform to see if a snack is close by before lifting off for its five-minute flight back to Port Washington.

Please understand that I know very little about cars especially macho or muscle varieties. But even I am somewhat familiar with the venerable Porsche 911. The New York Times recently reviewed the 2015 rendition of the 911 GTS. The reporter, Tom Voelk, waxed eloquently about the performance and features of the $142,300 version he was permitted to test. Witness the following: “With the engine singing baritone from behind, 0 to 60 miles an hour is a 3.8-second thrill ride.”

Still Mr. Voelk’s review noted the 911’s aging features: “The 911’s delicious analog nature is a blessing in our digital world.” Or: “Issues? At $142,000, a backup camera would be nice.”

In summary, he compares the 911 to “…a BMW 18 that’s bursting with new technology. One is a Rolex. The other an Apple Watch.”

Which brings me to my 911 story; years ago, my firm arranged for a European colleague to attend a month-long summer course at the Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth University. Designed as an intense mini-version of an M.B.A. program this chap would have little free time except for the middle weekend. Since Dartmouth is about 50 miles from our New Hampshire house, I invited him to spend a relaxing weekend with us.

We shall call him Broker X to protect the innocent. Known as a charming rascal, Broker X readily accepted this invitation and I drove him to Marlow after picking him up from his campus quarters. Tall and thin, he had a way with women and could instantly charm them. This despite suffering from bad skin that one could sum up if being uncharitable: “One day his face caught fire and they put it out with a fork.”

Despite this handicap, a church lady once remarked about Broker X, “I don’t know what it is about that man but I cannot be in the same room alone with him. If I am, I start to feel funny inside.”

The highlight of his visit was a round of golf at the Hooper Golf Club in the town Walpole on the Connecticut River. Hooper is a lovely little course with nine fairways but with 18 tee boxes. Cut into the forest, several fairways look down toward the river and neighboring Vermont.

My then 14-year-old son, Michael, joined Broker X for the round. “Tell me Mister X, what kind of a car do you drive back home?

“A Volvo,” he replied.

“No, no, I am not talking about your company car, what kind of a car do you own back home?

“Ah, a Porsche 911.”

“I’ll tell you what; we have a blue Ford Escort back home. How about I’ll trade you the Escort for your 911?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay then, I’ll throw in my 16-year old sister!”

The New York Times recently published an extensive account of a trip to Indonesia that I sent to my buddy, Geoff Jones. In their salad days, Geoff, and his wife, Judy, traveled to remote and exotic places seeking unconventional adventures and Geoff recalled several of his experiences on their trip back in the mid 90’s:

The only way that we could travel from island to island was by air. They operated like a local bus service and we mostly flew on one of two airlines, Merpati and Simpate, both owned by the Suharto family. They were simply awful. They had a terrible safety record and were infested with roaches. On one flight my seatback collapsed into the next row making it impossible to fasten my seatbelt. That wasn’t all, comically; the airplane featured two ordinary chairs situated near the door. They were moved out of the way for boarding, etc. and were used by the cabin crew for takeoffs and landings.

At one airport, my friend, Randy and I, decided to exchange $100 bills for Rupiah, the local currency. I don’t recall the rate of exchange but the stack they gave us was so large that they also gave us large size super market paper bags to cart the money away. When Randy and I returned to the luggage carousel where Judy and his wife, Toni, were waiting, they looked at the bags with surprise and asked what we had purchased? We replied, “Nothing, but look in here.”

We all nearly collapsed with laughter. The Rupiahs were so worthless that our stash consisted of one inch bundles of filthy colored paper with a rubber banded sample of the denomination around it. To purchase something, we counted out bundles, not the bills,

That airport was also a zoo. The luggage carousel didn’t actually move and the luggage arrived on old pickups. The handlers slid the bags down a ramp going in various directions depending which of the raised slots on the carousel slide they happened to hit. On the ceiling, a mounted fan rotated around in a vain attempt to moderate the intense heat inside the terminal. The fan didn’t have any blades. Between the money exchange, the luggage and the fan, we nearly pissed in our pants.

Indonesia is so big that it spans seven time zones. Ethnically diverse, it is heavily Chinese in the West but gradually turns aborigine as we traveled east. On a two-hour plane flight you feel you have crossed into a new world and not that you are still in the same country. A flight from Java to Irian Jaya made about a half dozen stops. On another from Jakarta, we reached our destination, Jojakarta after dark, tired and sweaty. The airport was deserted and we had to change terminals. Finally we found a terminal that listed our flight. I felt so dirty that I bought a shirt to replace my filthy one and changed in a bathroom. It was a neat looking Garuda Airline shirt but later in the trip after washing, it shrunk to the size of doll clothing. It might have fit “Ken.”

We visited with tribes slightly beyond their stone-age head-hunting days. The women were bare-breasted and wore a net cloth around their waists that served as a soft cover up and was also used as a shopping bag. The men split penis gourds and western garb depending on whether they were farmer/hunters or shop keepers. We did see a family mummy. We were treated to tribal meal rituals where pigs were shot with primitive bows and arrows and cooked on hot stones though we declined to dine. On one occasion, they brought out the seated mummy for us to see. It began to rain so one of the tribe produced an umbrella and held it over the old fellow.

We discovered Durians. For the uninitiated, these fruits native to Southeast Asia, are supposedly delicious and can be made into ice cream. However, they are infamous for their fecal odor. Toni tried a cone on a taxi ride smelling up the cab until the driver forced her to toss it out.

Of course much has changed in the last twenty years but this narrative gives you an idea of what a unique adventure this could be. But if you are interested in a beach vacation, limit your adventure to Bali.

I’ve analyzed the newly proposed plan to reconstruct and resurrect LaGuardia Airport from the horrible condition that it has sunk into and I say with absolute candor, “You can’t shine s***!”

The existing facilities are overcrowded, worn down and broken. The main terminal, now known as Terminal B, opened fifty-one years ago in 1964 in a much quieter era before the 727 and the DC-9 revolutionized domestic air transportation. Terminal B was designed to have flights arrive and depart from four separate wings that connected to various areas in the main building. Security was minimal back in the day and each wing had its own security check-point. I always understood that if you had to transfer from one to another, you had to exit the secure section and be screened all over again. Today, in our post-September 11, 2001 atmosphere, this enhanced process is a logistical nightmare. That was my understanding but it turned out not to be the case.

My cousin, Bill, recently made two trips from Texas to LaGuardia. His first round trip was on American. On the return leg the airline changed his gate from C-4 to A-12 after the TSA had cleared him and he arrived at the original designated gate. He told me, “I did not want to go through that barbaric process again so I asked a Port Authority cop if there was a way to avoid it?”

“Yes,” the cop replied and directed me to a non-descript door. “Go down the stairs and a van will take you to Wing A.”

“He must have called ahead because no alarm went off when he opened the door and when I reached the bottom there was a driver waiting for me. After driving me to the correct wing, he watched me very carefully to be sure I entered the right stairwell. I climbed the stairs and out another unalarmed door although there may have been a guard nearby.”

Just one example of how broken this airport is. But the overwhelming issue is LaGuardia cannot be fixed. I remember a flight from DFW to LGA years ago. I was sitting next to a young man, a new flyer on his first flight. Understandably excited and scared, he asked me what the takeoff will be like. “Oh that will be as easy as can be. The runways at this airport are about 12,000 feet long. There are separate runways for take-off and landings that are widely spaced and the pilots have all the room they need.”

He looked too relieved for his own good so I continued, “The problem will be landing at LaGuardia; that will be like trying to put the airplane down on to a postage stamp.”

To make sure he understood, I pointed the field out to him as we banked over Flushing Meadows Park. My reward was watching his eyes grow to the size of silver dollars.

The site for LaGuardia Airport was originally picked to be convenient to Manhattan and be accessible to both land and sea planes. At the time Imperial (British Airways) and Pan American Airways were the primary trans-Atlantic carriers and both operated multiple engine flying boats on their overseas routes.

Hence LaGuardia sits on a peninsula with water on three sides, the East River, Bowery Bay and Flushing Bay. Over time the airport has been expanded and been manipulated as much as humanly possible. The land side is locked in behind the Grand Central Parkway along its entire length and three residential communities, East Elmhurst, Corona and Jackson Heights. About half the airport was originally built on top of semi-stable fill requiring a dike and pumps to keep it from flooding during high tides.

The two runways are perpendicular to each other and can only be used one at a time. They were extended to 7,500 feet in length in the mid-1960s to meet the minimum distances needed by medium size jets for takeoff and landing. These extensions were erected on two massive concrete piers strong enough to take the shocks of countless aircraft touching down.

Scary enough but there is more. Only one end of one runway has overshoot protection; i.e. an area to stop an airplane in an emergency. On two others, the water is the only choice and the last, the parkway.

In closing, the most modern terminals, transportation hubs, air control systems or travel amenities can do nothing to alleviate what ills LGA.

My suggestion, have pilots change their announcements to: “Ladies and gentlemen we are cleared for landing / takeoff and now, let us pray.”