They say these things happen in three's

Finally, I get to tell you about New York! We headed off to drop off the RV and of course, had to get lost in it one last time for posterity, say goodbye to the Beast in style, as t'were. We had planned to get a taxi to SF airport to catch our flight to NY, but the attendant at the El Monte RV depot (lovely Bulgarian man who didn't tell us his name but won my respect when he let me help him put the luggage into the bus - do you know how few men will accept this kind of help from a woman? Bulgaria's on my to do list) told us that it would be quicker and cheaper to get a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transport) train from a nearby station to the airport, it went straight there. Well, he was right about it being cheaper, at least.

It just wasn't quicker. In fact, it was much longer than we had anticipated. In fact, this journey took so long that we missed our plane. Can anyone picture my poor father at this point? He kept it together quite well, I thought, the only things he smashed up belonged to us and the train carriage was empty so no one called 911 from their cell phone. Result. We arrive only 20 minutes late for our plane but it's gone, so that was late enough. Fortunately, this sort of thing must happen all the time, as they just put us on another flight to NY only one hour later than we had planned to fly anyway. Now that's magic. Amy had her hairspray and her clinique (in bold because apparently this is a really big deal) foundation confiscated because you can't carry aerosols or liquids in your hand luggage. They thoroughly searched her bag and I stayed with her while they rummaged away. I remembered the terror and embarrassment I felt when I was stopped by customs on a trip to France when I was about her age, though she seemed much better about it than I was, she just kept snarling at the guard after he took away her make up.

The flight was brilliant. I'd been very nervous about it because I had a bad experience on an internal flight from Chicago to Toronto once (Glenn, you know what I'm talking about) and I'm afraid of flying anyway (it's part of the whole fear of heights thing). But I was fine, even though there was turbulence, I felt positively chipper and I even looked out of the window during daylight take off and night-time landing (cool to watch the sun go down as you fly across a timezone) - I know, impressive for an acrophobic! I felt upbeat and cheerful by the time we landed and was really looking forward to my first glimpse of New York from the ground. We went to the luggage carousel and waited for our cases to spin their way round to us. First came Amy's, then...well, lots of other cases...some more cases that were not ours....and then the carousel stopped. And I started to panic.

Inside my head was a curious mantra, rotating like an empty luggage collection carousel, getting louder and louder with each repetition - My luggage isn't here. Where's my luggage? - until I felt like the living embodiment of Edvard Munch's The Scream, but with sound effects. I marched with my Dad to the United Airlines office with the grim determination of a public executioner having a very bad day. The man in the office knew what we were there for because a lovely German couple had the same problem and they had got there before us. I explained as calmly as I could that our luggage was gone, running my hands repeatedly over my face (this is a very bad body language cue in my family, my brother, for example, always does this just before he punches someone in the face and for the first time, I could understand exactly how he felt - if you don't do something with your hands then you can guarantee one of them is going to fly out of your control into someone's jaw).

"Yeah," he said without making eye contact (very, very, very bad service practice, that, particularly when you're dealing with someone who has underlying anger issues), "I think the same's thing's happened to your's as to their's." He nodded toward the bewildered looking elderly Germans.

"Really." I replied, with a tone so icy that a penguin leapt onto the counter and tried waving at the man frantically to warn him of my wrath. "Well, I've only just got here and I don't know what you've told these people, so perhaps you could enlighten me." I put a .50 caliber magnum on the counter, the penguin put his wings over his eyes and tossed the attendant a fish as a last farewell.

He looked at me (the attendant, not the penguin), possibly thinking for the first time, ooh, she could be a bit of a pain in the ass, this one.

"Er, well, it's been caught in a chute jam when the luggage was loaded on the plane. It's still in San Francisco. We'll put it on the next flight and deliver it to your hotel tomorrow. Have you got the address of your hotel?"

"WHAT??????????" Was my exceptionally calm reply, "My luggage is still in fu-" My sense of humour and the penguin melted into a nuclear pool of radioactive wrath.

Dad, next to me, said, "Well, I suppose it's all part of the rich tapestry of life, isn't it?" He started rummaging around in his bag for the hotel details.

I am stunned. In fact, I'm almost stupified. My father, who berates us if our cutlery isn't at right angles to the table, who got into some of the worst arguments with us, his children, over getting lost in California, is telling this complete stranger that the fact his luggage is in ANOTHER F*&CKING STATE, that this is all part of the RICH TAPESTRY OF LIFE??? My anger switches instantly to him and I stalk outside, unable to trust myself near humans while my right eye and left cheek are still twitching violently. The thing is, I know that I'm being unreasonable, I know this for certain, in my intellectual self, but my emotional self is having the biggest tantrum since my cousin Jo shaved the head of my Peaches and Cream Barbie when I refused to give her the little glass slippers that went with Barbie's Cinderella outfit, and all rationality is fighting hard to be heard. I try and think myself back into therapy to find my quiet place of safety until Dad and Amy emerge, a little tentatively, from the luggage office.

"Are you ok? They said it will be there first thing in the morning," Dad reassures me.

"Ok," I squeak and do something with my face that is meant to be a smile but smashes three of the mirrored panes lining the walls as we walk past. We all drift in silence, Dad's and Amy's nervous, mine born of hard concentration, to the exit doors. I can see the bright yellow cabs outside that I have seen in a million films and even make myself smile as I imagine getting into one and demanding "Take me to my luggage, and step on it!" in my best New York bravado voice.

I am belly-flopped out of this daydream as two men yell, "No, miss!!! Miss!" at me, and I am pulled back into the lobby.

"Where are you going? We're cabbies. I'll take you," says one of them and marches us outside.

"What are wrong with those cabs?" I demand, eyeing the line of yellow taxis.

"Oh, they don't go everywhere, I'll take you." He says and he's actually herding us now towards a dark car park.

Now I'm normally the one in a group least likely to complain and I'm always guilty of that British aversion to making a fuss, but my experience with the luggage had me on my last nerve. I stop dead next to the line of yellow taxis.

"No." I say, "I don't see why we can't use these."

"I'll take you in a limo?" the guy offers.

"No way," We all chime in unison, marching away.

"They only go to Manhattan!!" he shouts, which all of us ignore. We're going to Manhattan.

"It's the same price as them!!" he screams out behind us as we climb into a cab and give the driver the address.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the Hotel Thirty Thirty, so named because of its address, 30, Thirtieth Street (about five minutes walk from the Empire State Building). The receptionist checks us in with an air of indifference that is so entire, I forget to be offended by it and study her with fascination. Dad tells her about our luggage.

"Yeah, they always say that it will turn up the next day, but usually it doesn't." She reports this tonelessly, without malice, and, I'm not sure why, but I burst out laughing. I have fallen down the far side of the pinnacle of despair and have landed in the valley of hysteria. Finally, she looks at us, well, at me, actually.

"It's better to tell the truth, I think," she explains.

"Absolutely!" I snort, between giggles, "It's better to know!" I squawk, finally.

Amy takes me by the arm and moves me from the desk until we head for the lift. Our room is petite but friendly and has the novelty of a safe in the wardrobe. We're impressed.

We've gained some time in the flight from SF to NY, I think about 3 hours so Amy and I aren't tired, and I'm still rushing on adrenaline and hysteria. We're still awake at three and I pop to the ensuite loo. I flush the toilet and start examining my reflection in the mirror over the sink when I hear a funny noise coming from the toilet. I turn to see water cascading prettily all over the bathroom floor. My heart jumps higher than my throat, out of my mouth, turns a somersault and slides back down my throat and I scream "AMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!!"

My sister rushes in and screams with me. We do this for a bit and then we're ankle deep in water and it occurs to me to rip off the cistern top and yank at a series of parts I don't understand until the water stops. We look at each other, all wide-eyes and round mouths (see picture at top). Then we start laughing. I let go of the pipe I've been holding to go and call reception and water immediately starts flowing out of the toilet bowl again. I raise the pipe. The water stops. I lower the pipe. The water flows. I'm no plumber, but I know neither one of us can stay holding this all night even if we do it in shifts.

I call reception. It's 3.15 am. A mumbling man answers, barely audible.

"Hnnnnh. Front desk. Hnnnh."

My words tumble out like water from a broken toilet, "Hallo, room 920 here and the toilet's broken, I mean there's water everywhere. It won't stop. My sister's holding the pipe. There's water everywhere. It's broken. It wouldn't stop. It's broken. The toilet......" I trail off.

He sighs the longest and weariest and possibly most resentful sound I've ever heard. "Turn off the faucet next to the basin."

"What? Sorry? What?"

"The. Faucet. Next. To. The. Basin. Turn. It. Off. Hnnnnh."

"Oh, right. The faucet. What about the water?"

"Use towels."

I thank him - I actually thank him for this! I'm so working class English sometimes it hurts me to remember. That interaction could only have been perfected if he'd said, "Welcome to New York," before hanging up.

I turn off the faucet, the water stops. Amy and I stay awake until 5.30 am laughing and chatting until sleep comes to claim us like a tourist reclaiming her lost luggage. I wonder as I fall asleep if I will ever be able to forgive New York for this introduction to her charms. I'll have to wait and see.