vailian

Leaving the plane: the humid heat rushes at you like a Turkish bath. Inside the airport terminal the smell is identifiably American Institution, a mix of metallic and permanent air conditioning.
The passport people are scary. Intimidating from the first contact, they try to provoke. Not a pleasant experience. Necessary? Maybe, maybe not. Certainly not invariably necessary. I explain to the musicians I am travelling with (many of whom are arriving here for the first time) that these guys are trained to do this, and that the average American is friendly and trusting. Like me.
The hotel is a Holiday Inn, verging on seedy. We are a big group (50) and they haven't prepared the roomkeys. Jetlagged and exhausted, we huddle around the reception counter. There is a leak in the ceiling and some of us get damp.
I am happy to report though that the room itself is perfectly adequate, albeit with a rattling noisy airconditioner. (The Ossie, who will arrive later this evening, will hate that.)
I walk down the street an savor the unique experience that this city always provides. Beside me, on the street, a whump and metallic crunch and the unmistakeable sound of a taillight being pulverised. The drivers involved honk furiously at each other and scream invectives in some unidentifiable languages. No one bothers to look. One of the drivers races away, hurling insults. The other (a taxi) curses and then drives off as well. In Germany this would have drawn a crowd and involved several police cars within 2 minutes, here (apparently) it is normal.
I go into a deli, order a tuna sandwich. It is made with virtuoso speed in front of me, and sliced with surgical precision.
The best tuna sandwich I have had in my whole life.