Arriving To Port

I have arrived to the city later than expected. It seems Air Travel in the American Empire has become a token of its general carelessness. Its travel ports are plagued by constructions and routine delays, while carriers continually fluctuate prices to accord with the profits of the season. Customer service, the least of any concern to a big ticket provider. These days, to arrive on time for a good price is nearly out of the question.

And of myself, I had made twice the mistake, choosing to Fly a Major into a hub under perpetual construction. The airmen stalled us a good eighth day to circle ‘round a big storm northwest of the city. And with lander gates full from delays and big gales, we waited another near sixty just to exit into the port’s mouth.

And of course, my bundles nowhere... No clean robes, oils, body sauces or undergarments. I am left stinking in the heat for 36 hours, stuck underground waiting. A day passes with no word from the travel group. A second half day.

Finally, by Perfect Delivery my belongings arrive. Sandals. Linens. Shirts. Two wooden boxes filled with things from home: a rock from the west riverbank, a length of pink ribbon, a stamp and wax for letters. I heft the canvas sack onto my back by the straps and move to the steel doors of the community building.

The brass lock on the door is of poor quality and fights at the turn. One must fiddle with it. Sometimes one must fiddle with it for a good period of time. In fact, everything seems to require a little trick or extra turn to be of use. If one must be a citizen to enter the city – to gain all of this, I wonder what I’ve gained of myself…