A couple of weeks ago, I survived a most grueling airline flight that began in Portland at 10:55 p.m. PDT and landed in New York-- Kennedy Airport, which is technically Queens-- at around 6:45 a.m. EST.
Upon arrival, I'm barely functional. As an infrequent flyer, I have the crazy notion that I might actually sleep on this flight because it's a red-eye, non-stop flight. I prove myself wrong! The overstuffed flight immediately dashes my hopes of fetal-positioning myself across all three seats and "manufacturing" some consistent z's. I try, with little success, to read and wish-- for the first time ever perhaps-- that I were an actual dwarf-- one of the Little People (in a ) Big World-- half of Oregon's own minor celebrity-family, the Roloffs. Pint-sized patriarch Matt travels a lot for business alone or with his son, Zach, to the Little People of America's conferences. And sometimes The Learning Channel sends them to Hawaii to make for a more interesting program sequence.
For them, airline travel-- at least for the three little-people family members-- must be a breeze if you don't count the inevitable struggle with those overhead compartments, which also challenge me, at a dash shorter than 5'3". At least, the average-sized 17-year-old twin, Jeremy can help with that, as he's already pretty tall.
Thrift leads me to take one of those $17 airport shuttles from JFK to my friend Anne Dee's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where she lives with her Japanese Chin, whose formal name is Chindale's Palm Pilot, aka "Palmer." I've seen his picture, and I'm eager to meet him. Anne Dee Goldin, an old schoolmate from sixth grade through high school graduation, did not become my friend until fairly recently-- not until after our thirtieth high school reunion in Hewlett, Long Island, New York nearly six years ago.
I had already created Palmer's first Café Press shop named Boutique Palm D'Or creating designs from a few emailed images, but we'd yet to meet fur-to-flesh. . .
The trip from JFK to West End Avenue takes about three hours-- that's about half the time it took to fly from coast to coast.
One passenger, a flight attendant named Pat, a veteran shuttle-rider complains about how long it's taking, and after the first hour or so warns the driver that if he doesn't stop at a gas station or hotel soon, she's going to pee all over herself and inundate the bus. Finally the driver stops at some garage, at the precise tipping point when Pat's bladder threatens to explode, barely averting a major flood.
When we finally reach midtown Manhattan, I call Anne Dee to warn her of my arrival. It's raining Oregon-style in the city and although I'm less than a couple of miles from my final destination, it could easily be another half-hour. I also explain that I'm kind of glazed over and spaced out from my travels.
We're zipping through town at the breakneck speed of at about 2 MPH. Eight other passengers get off at various stops. That leaves just Pat and me: I'm the next stop; hers is last, Columbus Circle.
Finally, I'm out of this infernal vehicle whose driver seems to know New York like the back of some stranger's hand. I drag myself to the building's portal and ask the doorman to announce my arrival. I wheel my generic black suitcase to the elevator and up we go. The door parts and there he is-- Palmer, the most adorable petit ambassador!
Upon arrival, I'm barely functional. As an infrequent flyer, I have the crazy notion that I might actually sleep on this flight because it's a red-eye, non-stop flight. I prove myself wrong! The overstuffed flight immediately dashes my hopes of fetal-positioning myself across all three seats and "manufacturing" some consistent z's. I try, with little success, to read and wish-- for the first time ever perhaps-- that I were an actual dwarf-- one of the Little People (in a ) Big World-- half of Oregon's own minor celebrity-family, the Roloffs. Pint-sized patriarch Matt travels a lot for business alone or with his son, Zach, to the Little People of America's conferences. And sometimes The Learning Channel sends them to Hawaii to make for a more interesting program sequence.
For them, airline travel-- at least for the three little-people family members-- must be a breeze if you don't count the inevitable struggle with those overhead compartments, which also challenge me, at a dash shorter than 5'3". At least, the average-sized 17-year-old twin, Jeremy can help with that, as he's already pretty tall.
Thrift leads me to take one of those $17 airport shuttles from JFK to my friend Anne Dee's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where she lives with her Japanese Chin, whose formal name is Chindale's Palm Pilot, aka "Palmer." I've seen his picture, and I'm eager to meet him. Anne Dee Goldin, an old schoolmate from sixth grade through high school graduation, did not become my friend until fairly recently-- not until after our thirtieth high school reunion in Hewlett, Long Island, New York nearly six years ago.
I had already created Palmer's first Café Press shop named Boutique Palm D'Or creating designs from a few emailed images, but we'd yet to meet fur-to-flesh. . .
The trip from JFK to West End Avenue takes about three hours-- that's about half the time it took to fly from coast to coast.
One passenger, a flight attendant named Pat, a veteran shuttle-rider complains about how long it's taking, and after the first hour or so warns the driver that if he doesn't stop at a gas station or hotel soon, she's going to pee all over herself and inundate the bus. Finally the driver stops at some garage, at the precise tipping point when Pat's bladder threatens to explode, barely averting a major flood.
When we finally reach midtown Manhattan, I call Anne Dee to warn her of my arrival. It's raining Oregon-style in the city and although I'm less than a couple of miles from my final destination, it could easily be another half-hour. I also explain that I'm kind of glazed over and spaced out from my travels.
We're zipping through town at the breakneck speed of at about 2 MPH. Eight other passengers get off at various stops. That leaves just Pat and me: I'm the next stop; hers is last, Columbus Circle.
Finally, I'm out of this infernal vehicle whose driver seems to know New York like the back of some stranger's hand. I drag myself to the building's portal and ask the doorman to announce my arrival. I wheel my generic black suitcase to the elevator and up we go. The door parts and there he is-- Palmer, the most adorable petit ambassador!
He is followed by Anne Dee. This perfect miniature dog is my instant friend and I cannot believe how well trained he is-- sort of a five-pound silken-haired male Perle Mesta, to boot! Unlike my two Cairn terriers, Maggie and Geordie, he seems to have little desire to adopt "a new best friend" who's leaving and to accompany. Impossibly well-behaved and every bit the companion dog he's meant to be, he seems to ask permission for everything and doesn't take over the same way a terrier might. He's almost exactly as Anne Dee describes him, "a stuffed animal that poops and pees."
Palmer's coloring matches any decor, and the duplex apartment is impeccable, stylish, and comfortable. He blends right in, a perfect stark contrast of black and white among the creams, browns, and earthtones.
Anne Dee and Palmer Goldin
(I will only mention briefly how I ended up with the wrong suitcase: Mine had been grabbed by a woman from Israel who was visiting a man several blocks from Palmer and Anne Dee's place. Fortunately, while I was on the phone begging the shuttle company to track the darn thing down-- the same black suitcase
as everyone else's-- Anne Dee solved the mystery by calling a number on little pink sheet of paper found within the poser suitcase.)
"It's raining, " the man complains when Anne Dee suggests he come and get it. Major chutzpah. After all, it was his guest who had taken my bag leaving me with only one other to choose from. Retrieval required a cab ride on my part because I was more desperate for my stuff than the woman's host was willing to get wet. Was she made of brown sugar; would she melt?
I spend the rest of the morning, afternoon, and evening-- not sure which was when-- in the company of Anne Dee, Palmer-- and later joined by her friend, Howard. I get a good nap, we have lunch at I-have-no-idea-what-time, delivered sushi well after dark, and I get a fabulous night's sleep on the most comfortable sofa in the world.
And so, this begins a three-day visit that includes more friends, relatives, and finally a reunion with with women I attended Camp Winnetaska, a summer camp in Holderness, New Hampshire I last attended nearly four decades ago.
Palmer's a wonderful host and even cuter in person than he is in pictures-- although he takes an awfully adorable picture. (So does his owner.) He is immortalized in two shops:
Jill-- back home with her beloved-- if argumentative-- they're the attorneys of the canine world, you know-- Cairn terriers, Maggie and Geordie
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