John Delach

What could possibly go wrong?

Most of us are familiar with the crash of a Tesla Model S in 2016 on US Highway 27 outside of Williston, Florida. Joshua Brown was traveling at 74 mph using cruise control and his Tesla’s Automatic Emergency Braking and Forward Collision Warning systems commonly referred to as an “autopilot.”

At the intersection of NE 140^th Court, he encountered a tractor-trailer driven by Frank Baressi making a left turn onto NE 140^th thereby blocking Highway 77. For whatever reason, neither Mr. Brown nor the vehicles autopilot recognized the truck and the Tesla passed under the trailer without slowing down. The National Highway Transportation Safety Administration (NHTSA) reported that Mr. Brown had seven seconds to take action by braking or attempting to steer around the truck.  The crash sheared off the windshield and roof of the Tesla killing Mr. Brown. The report noted: … “Mr. Brown failed to observe the truck crossing his path”…”took no evasive action.” and “There were no skid marks from braking and telematics pulled from the Tesla showed the brake pedal was never pressed.”

The sedan traveled more than 900 feet after the initial impact hitting two wire fences and a wooden utility pole before the now powerless car came to a stop. Damage to the truck and trailer were minimal and the police allowed Mr. Baressi to complete his delivery two miles away before taking possession of the vehicle.

Despite the obvious, both the NHTSA and the Florida Highway Patrol considered Mr. Baressi at fault for failing to give right of way during a left turn.

Further, the “NHTSA found the autopilot system had worked appropriately and was not designed to alert on a crossing vehicle.”

“Tesla’s own investigation revealed that the car’s cameras failed to notice the white side of the trailer against the brightly lit sky. Tesla notes that if the car had impacted the wheels of the trailer or the truck itself, the vehicle’s safety systems would likely have prevented serious injury.”

The reports do not speculate what Mr. Brown was doing prior to the accident and Tesla’s CEO Elon Musk has made the point that the autopilot saves lives. “One percent is 12,000 lives saved every year,” Musk said last September. “I think it would be morally wrong to withhold functionalities that improve safety in order to avoid criticisms or for fear of being involved in lawsuits.”

If Mr. Musk is this concerned about safety, perhaps he’d like to comment on a certain option Tesla offers to the public? Back in 2015, Tesla announced that their Model S sedan would include a so called, “Ludicrous Option” in top end Model S line that has a base price of $119,200.  David Undercoffler of Autonews.com noted: “The electric-vehicle maker, channeling one of the more absurd moments of Mel Brooks’ comedy, ‘Spaceballs, ’announced this $10,000 option…that runs zero to 60 in a face-stretching 2.8 seconds.”

Tesla already had “Insane Mode” an option that made this leap in 3.2 seconds. Musk explained to reporters, “Nobody was asking for Ludicrous Mode because it was too ludicrous. Insane mode has been incredibly well-received. We figured out by engineering Zero to 60 mph in 2.8 seconds, (this) puts the Model S, a large sedan, in the realm of some of the fastest sports cars on the road today. It’s faster than Porsche’s top-end 911 Turbo S which needs 2.9 seconds to hit the same speed.”

Fast forward to January of 2017. The following story appeared on the front page of my local paper, Port Washington News, written by Meagan McCarty under the headline: “The Miracle At Soundview:”

“Date night is something that all couples look forward to, as did a middle aged couple who wanted to see a movie and drove their Tesla to the Soundview Cinema on Shore Road, Wednesday, January 18.

“After the movie let out, with the wife behind the wheel, the couple started to make their way to Shore Road by driving through the shopping center lot. According to first responders, the driver was trying to navigate the lot when she inadvertently hit the button for ‘Ludicrous Mode.’

“Once that button was pushed, the driver lost control of the vehicle, striking a brick stanchion at the entrance, toppling it and pinning the passenger underneath.”

The stanchion was actually a concrete pillar encased in bricks measuring three feet wide on each side and twelve feet high.  

“The Tesla appeared completely flattened, like an abstract sculpture with shards of glass and twisted metal…Almost immediately the driver walked out of the vehicle, stunned and shaken, but mercifully, nothing more. It took rescue workers 35 minutes to stabilize both the wreck and the stanchion that fell on top of the passenger’s side before they were able to extract her husband.  He complained of a bruised shoulder to EMS workers before he was transported to St. Francis Hospital for further examination. “

Would someone please explain to me if Elon Musk is so concerned about the morality of increasing safety, why on earth would he decided to equip a sedan with such a feature and then sell it to middle aged customers?

The following is a guest story written by my daughter, Beth.

I had avoided getting a dog for some time but my days were numbered. My excuses (our family move, young children, summer vacation) were running out and the day of reckoning was coming.

Late last August I had lunch with our 12-year old, Marlowe and my husband, Tom and they really put the pressure on –When were we going to get a dog? They were tired of my excuses and concerns and they were ready. Tom and I walked away from that lunch in different corners but quickly resolved our differences, as modern couples do, over text messages. I texted Tom that we should talk to our neighbor, Mark, who lived with a small, older rescue dog named P.B. to think about how we could do something similar. We reasoned that finding a dog, a little older and maybe lightly trained would make the whole situation easier. We left it at that.

I woke up early the next day, a Saturday morning, to head to the local bagel store. As I was getting ready to leave our doorbell rang. It was Mark from next door – he asked me to step into the hallway because he had a question for me. I thought he was asking us to dog sit for P.B. as we had done earlier in the summer.

Dog sitting was not on his mind but dogs were. He explained that he had had dinner at the new Thai restaurant across the street from our building and that the owner A. (short for a very long Thai name) had approached him during his dinner. It seems that A. had found a dog tied up two blocks over from our building on Friday morning. The dog was scruffy and alone except for an empty bowl of food. A. already had a dog – plus she had just opened a new restaurant – and she could not keep the dog she found. In fact, when she first saw the dog tied up she just passed him and went home. A true animal lover, A. could not stop thinking about this poor dog’s predicament and within an hour of returning home she went back and rescued him. A. had named him Sampson and Mark thought of us immediately when A. asked him about taking Sampson home.

I was a little overwhelmed by Mark’s proposition – Is this it? Is this how we wind up with a dog? I decided to take the kids to get bagels and leave Tom sleeping and revisit this all in a few hours.

As I headed out of my building with my kids in tow there was A. across the street walking her dog and Sampson. She knew we wanted a dog from Mark and we all stopped on the sidewalk for what would become a life changing transaction. A. introduced us to this small furry creature with a cheerful disposition and a serious under bite. He was beyond what we could have hoped for, small but sturdy, hypoallergenic and friendly. I told the kids to go get their father and Tom came to meet us from a sound sleep. After all agreeing, A. handed us Sampson’s leash and he was ours. Suffice to say, we never saw those bagels.

We took him to the Vet and learned that he had no chip, weighed around 16 pounds and was between 1 and 2 years old. We kept the name Sampson because it seemed to suit him. And, thus began our adventure of dog ownership.

Needless to say he is the love of our lives. Most of my original worries were fulfilled – the dog walker costs a fortune, as do all dog expenses, the kids don’t help nearly as much as they promised they would and he has occasional accidents. But owning a dog is not a rationale decision, it is an emotional one and he has captured all of hearts.

 I would be remiss if I did not note that Sampson has a particular love for my parents’ dog Max. Max, who some may know is the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers, views Sampson as an unfortunate small beast to be sniffed and dismissed on each occasion they meet. Once Max creates action, Sampson insists on participating by biting Max’s back legs. To date, Max has refused to acknowledge this annoyance.

January 1, 2017 was indeed a Happy New Year’s celebration for the citizens of New York City.  Through, and because of, the clout of Andrew Cuomo, Governor of the State of New York and the absolute Tsar of the MTA (take that Cuomo’s arch-enemy, comrade Mayor Bill DeBlasio) the Second Avenue Subway finally opened for service as promised at the start of the New Year.

Admittedly, this newly completed line is just a small portion of a grand idea. Less than two miles long, It begins at the existing station at 63^rd Street and Lexington Avenue where the new tunnel continues toward the East River before turning north under Second Avenue to reach three new stations at 72nd, 86th and 96th Streets.

Critics point out that this mere hint of a real subway cost $4.8 billion, that the next phase extending the line to 125th Street may cost $6 billion and may not be built for another ten- years. Smart money bets the line will never reach its ultimate southern terminus in lower Manhattan. One wag noted that the cost of subway construction in New York was more than four times the cost in Barcelona and twice the cost of Paris. He compared this to paying $60 for a steak at Peter Lugers while being able to get a steak at a Parisian bistro for less than $30. “How much better could the steak be at Peter Lugers at double the price?”

For the record, I have had the pleasure to partake great steaks at famous New York steak houses like Lugers, The Palm, Sparks and Keene’s. Fate has also allowed me to dine in Paris. By way of comparison, I will make two points: First, if you can’t tell the difference between the steaks in New York and anywhere else, stick with chicken. Second, you get what you pay for: The New York cuts are out-of-this world. As for the Parisian cuisine, that piece of meat you are served has about a 50 / 50 shot of originating from a horse.

But this is a time for celebration. Set aside the negativity, part of the Second Avenue Subway first proposed 80 years ago is finally a reality. This is the hoped for salvation that most New Yorkers had resolved they would never see.

If you ever lived on the East Side in the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties and commuted to work, your only access to the subway system was the grossly over-crowded Lexington Avenue Subway. This became a daily descent into your own personal hell with no alternative except yellow taxis or Uber.

The Lex’s express stop at 86^th Street was a hub of horror. Narrow entrances / exits have to accommodate both those wanting to get in and wanting to get out. Double-decked with local service above and express below, every rush hour train creates a combat zone. The quick and those left behind.

The opening of this new line has finally ended that bondage and suffering. I say to those critical wags; balderdash! As a certified NYC transit geek, long ago deemed with the handle, “Johnny Transit,” I invite you to celebrate the Second Avenue Subway:  Oh come let us explore it.

Bob Christman and I made our opening run on Wednesday, January 19. We boarded a Q-Train at Herald Square and rode it north.  We’d only ridden as far north as 57^th Street when the door at the end of our car opened and a beggar entered imploring us passengers with his tale of woo. After he passed, Bob observed, “New subway; same ole panhandlers.”

We rode to the end of the line at 96^th Street then worked our way back south stopping to explore the other two stops. The run north along the new tube was noticeable for its speed, smoothness and relative quietness.

Along the way we exited at 86 Street for a leisurely lunch of beer and sauerbraten at the Heidelberg Restaurant that Zagat’s describes as, “a remnant of old Yorkville.” This 1938 vintage Bauhaus lived up to our needs. German lager on tap and acceptable sauerbraten; good, but not outstanding, made for a satisfying lunch.

Pleased, we returned to the underground. The sounds of trains entering and leaving the station are muffled by concrete ties that are mounted on noise reducing rubber gaskets allowing us to experience a semblance of quiet at least by New York subway standards.

Each station features a spacious and uncluttered island platform that is well-lit and well ventilated. A lower mezzanine extends the length of the station above the platform featuring large cutouts that offer unobstructed views of the vaulted ceiling directly from the platform. The effect creates a space both open and airy.

Entering and exiting each of these new stations is a joy to behold. Multiple stairs, escalators and elevators connect platform and mezzanine with exits at both the north and south ends of each station. These three stations are set apart by individual art work themes that decorate the mezzanine walls. Second sets of escalators, stairs and elevators take passengers either to an upper mezzanine or directly to the street. The length of those escalators leading directly to the street is similar to those in London revealing how deep down below street level  these stations were tunneled.

Too new for dirt, vermin and graffiti, the stations are well-covered by security cameras and uniformed NYPD officers. So grand, so modern, the Second Avenue Subway is everything a Twenty-First Century transit facility should be.

With all its glitz and glamor, our new subway is an appropriate addition for the silk-stocking Upper East Side that it serves. I salute Cuomo and Co. for finally bringing it in and I salute the designers and builders who created this brilliant addition. Unfortunately, these three stations are also a reminder of how old the rest of the system is and they do not reflect the subway system we love to hate:

New York, New York, It’s a hell of a town.

The people ride around in a hole in the ground.

Some snooze,

some booze,

if you snooze,

they steal your shoes,

as the subways go rolling along.

There is a very good likelihood that I am about to deliberately descend into the rabbit hole where I will be lost in a strange and incomprehensible world. Like a good number of you, my understanding of social media is minimal.  Granted, I am slightly ahead of the Patriot’s Coach, Bill Belichick who recently referred to electronic sites with made up names like “SnapFace” and “InstantChat.”  Though I don’t participate directly in social media, I am aware of Facebook, Skype, Twitter, Snapchat, Linkelin and YouTube.

I have impressions of these platforms. Facebook is where people put their egos to show off who they are, what they do, where they go, what they love and hate and how great their kids are. Snapchat is where kids, teens and young adults can make assholes of themselves. Skype is how to video chat with family and friends around the world for free. Linkelin is where to find a better job and YouTube replays an endless number of videos, mostly of pets doing stupid things.

Now, thanks to President Donald Trump, Twitter is the one that I am trying hardest to understand. Not what it is or what it does, this I believe I get. I see Twitter as a place where an individual can make a brief proclamation making a quick, brief point, the electronic version of shouting out to a crowd using a megaphone. Like using a megaphone, the individual has to stop and take deep breathes to continue. Likewise Twitter’s format forces the author to send separate messages to continue making a point.

I get this but I am just beginning to understand why it appears that Trump is addicted to Twitter but there is a rationale to his supposed madness? There was a piece in The New York Times explaining why the press / media can’t deal with Trump’s tweets. The author made the point that reporters are totally addicted to all forms of social media so as to stay on top of breaking events and not be scooped in this era of instant and changing headlines.

I have discovered that there are just over 60 different social media sites and Twitter is only the seventh most popular. Facebook is number one with well over one billion hits a month. Next is WhatsApp with 850 million, then WeChat (700), Ozone (640) Tumblr (550) and Instagram (400) before Twitter’s 320 million.

That’s just the top seven sites and how many can the average reporter possibly track at any given time? But enter Trump. In a way he simplifies the search for breaking news. Why troll sites like Google+, Viber, Line, Snapchat, Pinterest and Telegram when all one has to be is alert to the next early-morning “bulldog” edition of Trump’s tweets.

Once these messages reach the media’s hand-held devices, it is off to the races. Scribes react immediately and furiously “re-tweeting” his messages to each other and launching new versions, making commentary and issuing challenges to build the story or fact checking to verify or attack the accuracy of Trump’s tweets. It seems obvious this is the press’ / media’s intent, but it is not the consequence. Instead of developing the story, their actions and reactions actually fan the flames of Trump’s rants until they fuel fire storms sucking the oxygen out of other news much of it more important and relevant than his daily rants.

Trump breaks all of their rules of communications, analysis and distribution of information. In the pre-Trump world, policy would be presented by the President in a speech, a written presentation or a document that we once called a “white paper.” The press would react; analyze, debate, critique, challenge approve or disapprove. That’s the way media liked it and liked doing business.

Trump preempts the process through his attacking tweets. These tweets are not a new phenomenon. This has been Donald Trump’s early morning modus operandi for a dog’s age but the press didn’t pay attention until his campaign got legs. Now, media reaction converts sleeping dogs into exploding bombs that carry his message everywhere with priority and importance overshadowing other news regardless of its importance.  Trump didn’t plan this, he fell into it but he’s smart enough to recognize the weapon he now has.

What the scribes and commentators should do is downplay or ignore his rants so that they develop at their own speed or slowly die from a lack of interest or real content. But the press can’t do that. It is completely alien and contrary to their addiction to the need for speed and to stay on top and ahead of breaking news. They can’t resist the scoop so they push it as hard and fast as they can.

Trump recognizes that the press can never get ahead of him because he decides when and where to strike. They can only react to what he sends out. So it works for him as they are always on their back foot and they can’t help themselves from doing it. By the time they get their hands around the subject he’s moved on to a new rant.

Think about it. In this way Trump controls the dialogue and not the press.

How long he can continue is anybody’s guess, but meanwhile, like it or not, it’s brilliant!

The New York Times had the chutzpah to run a feature as their lead story in the January 8, 2017 edition of the Metropolitan Section with an inflammatory headline:

The Mob’s ‘Last Candy Jar’: New York’s Waterfront may not be what it was,but organized crime is still clinging to what remains.

This lengthy piece by Joseph Goldstein reported that “investigators say the mob is still present.”

Really? Just because a nephew of a famous wise guy made $400,000 in a single year because he was never off the clock “even when he was at home sleeping.” So what!

“Three consecutive presidents of Newark longshoremen’s union were convicted of extortion.”  Give me a break.

“Walter M. Arsenault, the executive director of the Waterfront Commission insists the mob remains unchanged since ‘On the Waterfront.’ The only difference is now it’s in color.” Well, to quote Mandy Rice Davies reaction when Lord Astor denied having sex with her: “He would (say that), wouldn’t he?”

George Daggett, counsel for the International Longshoremen’s Association (ILU) and cousin of its president, Harold Daggett, demonstrated the commission’s bias and harassing tactics in a suit he brought on behalf of Pasquale Falcetti Jr., a NJ longshoreman. “Mr. Falcetti,”  (Mr. Daggett) said, “was denied a port registration card by the Waterfront Commission for no other reason, apparently, than ‘who this kid’s father is’ – Pasquale (Uncle Patty) Falcetti, a convicted racketeer and reputed leader in the Genovese family, currently in federal prison.”

Mr. Arsenault countered and noted: “You can’t throw a rock on either side of the waterfront without hitting a brother, son or daughter of a made member.”

Supposedly, “the Gigantes, for instance, have 10 relatives – mostly nephews, in-laws and grandsons – working on the waterfront. “

But, let us leave the last word to George’s cousin Harold. So speaketh the president of the ILU: “There is an old saying. The son or nephew should not carry the sins of the father or an uncle.”

Case closed: shut up and fuhgeddaboudit.

The Noro Stomach Virus is that horribly infectious sickness that usually makes headlines went it strikes a cruise ship’s complement of confined passengers turning the “love boat” into “voyage of the dammed.”

Since mid-November, it has struck and continues to strike people in the Metropolitan area with a vengeance. Appropriately, it has selected the period of time surrounding the 75 Anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor to suddenly and deliberately attack individuals and families with devastating results.

Our ordeal began with a sneak attack on grandson, Matty, during the week of December 11 in the early hours of the day. Poor Matty never saw the virus coming and suffered both torpedo and bomb hits. Laid low by its severity, he was knocked out of action for five days.

Brother, Drew, was next attacked repeatedly by a lesser dose that never took him out but slowed him down to a crawl for over a week.

All of this happened several days before Christmas. As is our custom, Mary Ann, Max and I made our way to Fairfield on Christmas Eve to celebrate and open gifts in the morning. We took the chance and all was well as we enjoyed Chinese food for dinner, another Dec. 24 tradition. We left for New Hampshire and our daughter’s family early Christmas morning to repeat the process sans Chinese food.

The game plan called for the Connecticut Delachs to join us in Marlow on December 29^th but Noro whip sawed Michael on Tuesday while at work in Manhattan. Needless to say, his early commute home to Fairfield, Connecticut was a seemingly endless ordeal. He barely held it together while on the train trading violence for uncontrolled sweats but then paid the awful price for being able to do so once off the train.

And so ended those plans. What was left of the holidays ended the night of the 29^th when our son-in-law, Tom, had his turn arrive without warning. We quickly shelved the idea to stay through New Year’s Day as we decided to “get out of Dodge while the getting out was good.”

Tom heroically extended himself to assist in helping to leave and Beth rewarded him by driving home to Brooklyn as he slept.

New Years was quiet which is not unusual for us allowing me to watch my Giants beat the Redskins and get ready for the Packers in a wild card game the following weekend.

The week got off on a good note, a local R.O.M.E.O. (Retired Old Men Eating Out) lunch on Tuesday and lunch and a show in the city on Wednesday to celebrate Mary Ann’s upcoming birthday. We ate at Gallagher’s Steak House and saw a stirring revival of Irving Berlin’s, “Holiday Inn.”

Thursday, my plan was to meet friends at Penn Station and ride the newly opened Second Avenue Subway. NOT: at 2:30 AM, Noro struck. I was amazed how low I fell so quickly. I was able to overcome the nausea but I felt like I had been knocked so hard that I felt dopey. Just completing thoughts was difficult and I took to my bed except for emergency action. By the middle of the day Max decided to join me so I accepted this new bedmate feeling too weak to tackle this 80 pound horse of a dog. My recovery began Friday morning when I decided to shave.

Blindsided indeed! It didn’t end with me as Beth succumbed on Sunday, Jan. 8. I truly hope that none of you suffer this fate but should you, all I can say is this too shall pass.

I commuted between Port Washington, Long Island and New York’s Pennsylvania Station from 1977 until 2000 and, since my retirement, I continue to make this run mostly on non-rush hour trains two to three times a month.

Port Washington is a terminal and my title is taken from the banter between crew members that I could hear over the open intercom on those coaches as the crew prepared for the morning run:

Engineer to conductor: “Mickey says it’s time to go.”

Conductor: “No orders, no messages.”

Engineer: “I have the railroad.”

…and off we’d go each morning.

Other happenings were not so regimented or contrived. One morning a conductor named, Barney, entered my coach just after the train left the Plandome Station. A well-dressed and coiffed dowager looked up at him as he prepared to punch her ticket and asked, “Conductor, please tell me what time this train will arrive at Grand Central Terminal?”

Barney punched her ticket, looked at her and replied, “Lady, you’re on the wrong f***ing railroad.”

One evening on a return journey, the train was just emerging from one of the East River Tunnels as a different conductor entered the car. He commanded: “All tickets, please, all tickets, please. This is the 6:11 Flyer to Port Washington stopping only at Great Neck, Manhasset, Plandome and Port Washington. We expect to arrive in Port Washington at 6:48, all tickets, please.”

When he reached my row, a chap sitting across from me asked, “Why did you say ‘expect?”

“Because nothing in life is guaranteed.”

Beginning in 1989, I started a morning routine of having a daily workout before beginning my workday. I used Cardio Fitness, an upscale facility located in Rockefeller Center as my company was willing to pay for the annual membership. This required me to make the 5:36 train as insane as that sounds. Needless to report, my regular coach was only sparsely populated with other riders when it left Port Washington and often I was its only occupant.

One morning, I sat next to the window on a two seater on an otherwise empty coach. I was already engrossed in the morning’s New York Times when a young woman entered and sat down next to me. I slowly folded my paper, put it down, turned toward my unwanted companion and looked directly at her.

I obtained the desired effect. Clearly flustered, she spoke rapidly trying to explain: “I didn’t know what else to do, my mother always tells me to never sit anyplace but on the aisle and to look for a well-dressed gentleman to sit next to in order to be safe.”

“Look around, the coach is empty. I assure you that it will not get crowded and you can pick any other aisle seat except this one and nobody will try to sit next to you.”

She did as I asked and I returned to my paper but I did keep a protective eye on her for the rest of the journey just in case.

When my friend, Joe, asked me for the name of a good resort to take his family on a spring vacation in the Ft. Myers area I quickly thought of South Seas Resort on Captiva Island. After he found a decent deal on Jet Blue airlines’ website and booked it, I gave Joe, and his wife, Barbara, a list of restaurants, etc. on Captiva and neighboring Sanibel. This got me to thinking about our visits to those islands and I decided to see what was available at South Seas in early December.

I had seen TV ads for Trivago proclaiming to be a super site to find the best deals available from an international stable of travel agents. I took a chance and gave them my preferred dates to stay at that resort. One of these travel agents, Hoteling, quickly offered an excellent price of $1,227.35 for a week’s stay which I accepted and Hoteling confirmed to me on April 21.

I then waited for my next statement from Amex that showed this charge had been made against my account by this UK based travel agency. That statement was dated May 6 and upon receiving it I called South Seas directly who confirmed the booking had been made. Satisfied that all was kosher, I booked our own air and rental car independently.

On November 29^th, I decided to cross the “t”s and dot the “I”s so I called South Seas to reconfirm. Susan, the agent who answered said: “Sorry, Mr. Delach, but I cannot locate a reservation.”

I didn’t panic as I knew the resort had already confirmed it to me and I asked her to look further. She did then reported: “Found it, but it was cancelled on July 26.”

“By whom?” I responded. She couldn’t tell so I assumed Hoteling. First things first, I asked: “Okay, what do you have available for the period of December 7 to 15”?

She quoted me a rate of about $400 more than I paid which I accepted as my alternative was to tell Mary Ann that we weren’t going which I was not about to do.

I could find little for a way to contact Hoteling but I did find the following US helpline phone number for Trivago: 212-208-1439. When I called it a mechanical voice advised: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.” (If you have little to do, call it. You will hear the same message.)

I did locate Trivago’s web address and sent them an urgent request for action. Since this firm is domiciled in Germany, I realized that my plea could not be addressed until at least the next day at the earliest.

James Morrison from Trivago’s user support replied on December 1: “Unfortunately it is with great regret that I inform you that Hoteling.com along with their parent company, lowcosttravelgroup(LCTC) ceased trading on 15^th July 2016. This is awful news and very unfortunate that it has happened. We are as surprised as anyone.”

Morison did provide the name of the bankruptcy administrators in London  and denied any responsibility whatsoever.

I will not bore you with all that has transpired and continues to transpire since then. Suffice to say, I am not a happy camper.

We made the trip and had a swell time. I did make several attempts to make a case to Morrison to no avail. I did give Morison a parting shot telling him that I can’t wait to see the day when Trivago goes out of business and letting him know I would publish this piece. I did tell him the  working title was: “Trivago: Go to Hell!”

One last note, in the middle of these disappointing exchanges I received a survey from Trivago asking me to rate my experience. Needless to say I gave them a Zero . Zero rating.

Beware of using Trivago.

Monday, March 1, 1962 was one of those superb winter days, moderately cold but crisp and clear, the perfect day for a parade. The Daily Mirror’s morning headline commanded:

Go! Go! To See

Glen Today

Their accompanying story began: “The heavens will turn off that chronic drizzle of the past few days for the man who conquered the sky.”
The parade actually honored all seven Mercury astronauts and was conceived following America’s first space flight by Alan Shepheard. But that flight and Gus Grissom’s subsequent success were so brief that the parade was postponed until Glenn made our nation’s first orbital flight. Glenn became an instant hero and his flight was so well-received and applauded by the American public that the parade became known to all as “The Glenn Parade.”

I was as excited as everyone else and decided to see the parade in person. March 1 was also important to me for another reason; I had turned eighteen in February. So, before I made the trip to Manhattan, I first travelled to Jamaica, Queens the location of my local draft board where I registered for the draft and received my Selective Service card. While this card demonstrated that I had fulfilled my civic duty, it also provided proof that I was eighteen and could legally drink in New York.

Armed with my new status I boarded a Manhattan bound Jamaica elevated subway train at the 168 Street Station for the long ride to Lower Broadway.  For the most part this was a monotonous ride as the train meandered through lackluster neighborhoods like Richmond Hill and Woodhaven. It did have a moment though. at one point the el lifted up above the surrounding apartment buildings to clear the Long Island RR’s mainline that crosses beneath it. This rise provided a stunning view of Jamaica Bay, Idlewild (Now JFK) Airport and the Rockaways. I stood up on that clear, cold day to take in the view only to notice a plume of smoke rising high above the bay making me wonder what had caused that to happen?

On reaching Broadway I joined the masses that lined sidewalks five and six deep becoming absorbed by a crowd estimated to be as many as four million strong who stood along the route. I didn’t see very much even with my height advantage so I can’t say that I saw John Glenn but I think I did. I didn’t stay very long but I didn’t feel disappointed either. Everyone was so happy and proud to be there that it felt good to be part of it.

None of us standing there knew that the plume I had seen earlier came from the remains of an American Airlines 707 that had crashed earlier in the morning after taking off from Idlewild. American Flight No. 1, non-stop service from New York to Los Angeles, began its takeoff roll at 10:07 AM, about the same time I arrived at the Selective Service Office.  The airplane carrying a crew of 8 and 87 passengers climbed to 1,600 feet over Jamaica Bay where the flight crew commenced a left turn. At this point something went terribly wrong with the rudder, the moveable part of the tail. The 707 banked beyond 90 degrees, flipped over onto its back and began a terminal dive toward the bay. One minute and 49 seconds after beginning takeoff, the 707 smashed into the bay upside down at an angle of 73 degrees exploding in the shallow waters killing all on board.

The crash of American Flight No. 1 was the largest single-plane domestic air tragedy up to that time and forced next morning’s newspapers to come to terms with all that had happened on March 1…

The headline on the Daily News read:

IN ONE DAY:

95 Die in Jet; Busman Strike;

Millions Share Glenn Triumph

The Daily Mirror stayed the course with:

‘WONDERFUL’

The only notation, a box at the bottom right-hand corner of the first page noted:

95 Die Here In

Worst Air Crash

The New York Times went with twin banner headlines separated by a single column story about the Fifth Avenue Coach Company strike.  The left side banner headline covered three columns and read:

CITY TURNS OUT FOR GLENN

PARADE IN PAPER BLIZZARD

‘OVERWHELMS’ ASTRONAUT

The right side headline covered four columns and read:

ALL 95 ON JETLINER KILLED IN CRASH

INTO BAY ON TAKE-OFF AT IDLEWILD

PRESIDENT SPURS FEDERAL INQUIRY

Finally, the New York Herald Tribune separated the stories top to bottom of the front page with:

Triumph – The New York Way 

and 

TRAGEDY – End of Flight 1

The top of Page 1 began with this overview:

“Man reaches for the stars but he stands upon the earth. And his fallibilities and failings go hand in hand with his capability and achievements. Yesterday this city honored a space hero – even while stunned by a great air disaster. Today it still feels the pride in John Glenn – and it mourns the ninety-five who died at Idlewild.

We may be sure that there will also be other tragedies from the mines below the earth to the skies above it. But we know, too, that man will persevere and prevail and progress, for he knows no other way.”

(A day late as I was in transit on Wednesday.)

I asked my friend, Peter King, his permission to share his thoughts about, Ralph Branca, an iconic pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, our team when we were growing up. Pete wrote this piece last month following Branca’s death on November 23 at the age of 90.