It's Wednesday morning, and I'm in Sacramento airport. I'm about to catch a Delta flight to Atlanta, and then another to Manchester for a mini-RinkReunion at which I will be the only rinkie. It will last for seven of the midnight hours before getting another flight, a period of time too short to stay at a hotel and too long to be interesting. I wish something good will happen to relieve the boredom I will suffer.

Oh, wait, here's the plane. The general public take far too long to get seated in a small room. This is going to be a loong day. Actually, it will be a day and a half after time differences. Finally, we're ready. The pilot, who obviously went to Pilot's School and majored in incomprehensible speech, fails to inform us of anything to do with the journey. I think he says "Atlanta" once, so I'm happy. We start moving, and the cabin crew (can't call them stewardesses any longer, even though they are) show us what to do if we crash into the sea. There's a bit of rumbling, and with no excitement whatsoever disappear off the face of the earth.

We take a detour around some bad weather, which means that we land in Atlanta five minutes late. Disorder means we get off the plane ten minutes late. My bag has been unloaded by now and is on its way to the next flight. I try to get to the other end of the airport in time to join it, but fail and miss boarding. The person at the desk refuses to let me on the stationary plane.

I go to another corner of the airport to see someone about getting another flight. I have to get to Manchester soon in order to get on the American flight to New York. They kindly tell me that they can't do that, but they can look for other things. The person at the counter next to me gets irate at something and starts swearing at the woman behind the desk. I notice that that isn't getting her onto any flights, so I decide not to follow her lead. Ah, here we go. They can get me to yet another pronunciation of La Guardia, and the flight leaves about now. I make my way to another corner of the airport.

Surprisingly, I make it. We're told that we have to board soon because they close New York at midnight. It's getting dark as we take off, and the pilot cheers over the PA system. I think we're going to make it. I look over Atlanta as we rise above it, and see bright lights arranged in cryptic patterns. Between the highways and stores, dim streetlights can be made out. Not so much seen as felt, they appear to throb and change, giving the city a very supernatural 'living' look. Cool. A small blackout moves across the city, and I realise that it's a low-level cloud. I watch for a bit longer as more drift across my view. Suddenly I look into the middle distance in response to the unmistakable flash of sheet lightning. From between cloud layers, it's awe-inspiring. Flashes of electricity leap between the layers like a huge Van der Graff generator, beyond the sight of those on the ground. I forget how to spell that name.

I look over to the window in front of me to see a reflected Windows 98 desktop. An important-looking Word document and Powerpoint presentation can be made out. As the user goes through his Start menu looking for something, I notice the Napster logo. I smile, and return to the lightning. It's gone now.

I suddenly think about how alone I am, and how far everyone I know is away from me. I'm on the WRONG FLIGHT. Minutes pass, and I am broken out of my contemplation by a closer flash of lightning. I hope that we don't get diverted again. I realise that this would make a good Forum post, and rummage around for some paper to write on. I look at the windows again, and see Freecell and Darien. No, wait, it's my shirt, wrinkled and deformed in the window. Behind Darien, there's another city. I don't know what it is, but it's covered in smog. I've never really seen smog before, and I'm no better for seeing it now. The city was brown. I couldn't see half of it. I wonder what the people asleep down there think about it. I wonder if they even notice it.

More minutes pass, and more small patches of light pass with them. Their concentration increases noticably, and there is the slight sensation of a change in pitch of the plane. We must be getting close. Without a sound, the lights go out. It's another, slightly bigger black cloud. After a moment, Manhattan appears right next to us. I begin to doubt that it is Manhattan. I begin to doubt that Manhattan is anywhere near here. Either way, there are some enormous skyscrapers on a small island surrounded by a river that I might have heard the name of once, but can't remember. It looks... I don't know. Cool is one word. We continue our slight descent. More lights, more bridges, more river. I think it's a river. It must be, because it's the only dark area in sight. Slowly, the city increases its already substantial size. I can now make out a few billboards advertising a beer, some fast food, and amusingly, a place called "Sign City." We pass low over a large framework globe that looks like the Universal Studios one. I see people. We're really rather low now. There is a moment of panic as I realise we're about to crash into a huge building surrounded by aircraft. Just as I'm accepting that that is a good thing, we hit it.

It's funny (read: Scary) how Rinkworks infects your mind. One of the signs we taxi past informs us that B:K is to the right. I try to see what comes after B:Z, but we turn off before I get the chance. We stop. The pilot informs us that we have stopped, and equally pointlessly tells us to wait until the doors are open before removing our seatbelts. He is answered with 150 simultaneous clicks and all hell breaks loose.

What happens next? I've made it to New York, but what about my luggage? Is it in Manchester? Will I ever see it again? Where do I go from here? The answers to these questions may come later, if I get around to typing more.

Mat"Englishman in New York"thew