I have done a thing. A great and mighty thing. A thing that took both physical and mental fortitude. A Herculean undertaking of the most epic kind.

I turned my TV around. To face the wall. Where no amount of cramming and squeezing will allow me to comfortably watch it. Ideally anyways.

You see, television is destruction. That’s what my best friend’s mom used to say when we were in grade school. And it’s true today too. It’s a total waste. We all know that, of course, but we still watch it. I’m no exception.

I come home from my 10-odd hours of classes, pull out my reading, grab my laptop, and turn on the TV. Magically, nothing gets accomplished – except I learned that little bit more about the Oscar De La Hoya photo scandal and discovered that commercials are more entertaining than most programming.

Of course, I tell myself, with 75 per cent of my waking hours spent being ‘educated’ I can stand to have a little brainless vegetating in my life. There is some truth in that. Life is rather a slog nowadays what with the classes and the reading and the homework and the excessive biking. I’m sore from my brain to my Achilles Tendon. If I don’t find a softball team or a Scrabble club or suchlike soon, I may lapse into the “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” mania.

And yet STILL, I should NOT be watching TV. It does not do even the tiniest bit of good to me. It’s mind rotting, morally bankrupt, brainwashing stuff. And it’s utterly slothful. I sit there, like a lump, turning even air into fat cells. So it is done. The TV is no more. It is sitting with its nose in the corner, covered in a table-cloth, pretending to be a small, square and impossibly hard ottoman.

Where does that leave me? With lots of time to burn. But fear not! I shall not resort to petting my hair and humming. No, I have something even more fabulous in mind. Guess what I found while I was wrestling the idiot box? A book entitled “Juggling for the Complete Klutz.” This, my dears, is what is called serendipity.

Barnum and Bailey here I come!

This has been the week of severe mortification. First I did the Islam presentation where I believe I confirmed my colleague’s suspicions about my sanity – or lack thereof. I’ve had some weird looks since.

Next I made the mistake of asking my program admin for a tutorial on how to use an ATM to deposit my stipend check - the one I’d had in my purse for the past month. She didn’t take kindly to my tardiness, treating me to the most amazing shredding.

And then came my creative writing class. I was the only one whose haiku was met with complete silence. And then nervous shifting. And then the odd cough. And then some letting out of breaths.

Dear lord. There is a REASON why I gave up poetry writing when I was a kid. Even as an angsty, goth, and utterly self absorbed teenager I could see it wasn’t to be. I stopped then, and believe you me, the world is a better place for it.

Ah well. Thankfully I didn’t have any pretensions about it so it didn’t hurt all that much. It was just a wee bit embarrassing. Later that day, I was talking to a classmate about how awful a day I had, and he automatically said “Oh, you mean the haiku reading?” Haha, um, actually, by then I’d forgotten. But you know it’s bad when people assume it ruined your day.

And now, because I’m a sadist and I don’t want to bother writing any more tonight, I’m going to post my silence-inducing prose. It was to be a ten line haiku, with the first line having ten words, and each one following to be one less. Reactive shock is a bonus.

Overflowing mounds of fabric erupt tangled from the drawer.
A serpent eating its tail, no beginning or end.
One plucked from the knot seems suddenly small.
Twisted stubborn, to be any more, doubted.
Until coaxing hands, warmth and pressure,
Gentle out purpose and form.
Before laid gently down
Knotted, wrapped, bound
My crown
Thorns.

As a Muslim, I'm rather a rogue sort. I don't really do the communal religious thing very well. I'm at the masjid all of twice a year - for Eid prayers. All my religious terminology is garbled, with lots concepts borrowed and adapted from other philosophies. And after years of joint indoctrination from my Muslim dad and Christian mom, I have the damnedest time keeping my 'prophet stories' and concept straight. (Wait, is Solomon yours or ours?)

On top of that, I've really little interest in contemporary Muslim philosophy and politics. It's all static to me. I have no idea who the scholars and blacksheep of the moment are. I don't read the latest books or follow any movements. When I was 18, I read the Quran, and that's all I've needed. That isn't to say I do not identify myself as Muslim. I do very strongly. It's the only certain thing in my world. But my Islam is personal and internal and I don't usually share it.

But this Ramadan, I've decided to make some concessions. I'm living in a non-Muslim country for the first time in seven years, and suddenly I appreciate all that I was snubbing when I was in Pakistan and the UAE. There are no office iftars, or convenient prayer rooms. There aren't hordes of similarly dressed and ideologically inclined people buzzing about, annoying me. Heck, I'm lucky to spot a possible Muslim a day. And people here don't know jack all about what I believe and why.

So, at my very lovely landlady's advice, I prepared a presentation on Islam for my program peoples. And it was a learning experience. Namely for me.

Gosh, it's been forever since I looked at the basics. Back when I was deciding whether to believe in Islam or not - a million years ago - I did go through it all with as fine a tooth comb as my teenage brain can be considered. But since, I've not really addressed some of the basic whys and whats. For instance, what exactly is Sharia, where does it come from, and why is it controversial? And what really are the differences between Sunnis and Shiites? Why is Zakat a random 2.5 per cent? And not to mention, how the hell do you make a PowerPoint? I'd never done one before.

So after a week of stressing and googling, I'm done. I bit the bullet. I got up in front of my peers and laid my soul bare. This is what I believe, and why. Terrifying.

Firstly, there is the big worry that I'll get it wrong. I realize that my explanations were rather a distilled version of Islam - cutting through the crap so to speak - with a lot of modern day adjustment thrown in. For instance, in my world, hijab is not about protecting society from exposed sexuality as it is about protecting the wearer from vanity and ego. Yes, I guess that makes me rather Buddhist. And I realize I have a very inclusive idea of what makes a Believer. I'd probably be a far more lax Pearly Gates-keeper than most. But hey, God says he is the Most Merciful.

And on top of that, just the idea of holding my well guarded beliefs up to the scrutiny of others is enough to make my blood run cold. I believe as I believe because I choose to. These ideas work for me, they give me peace of mind and purpose in my life. They probably won't work for other people, and that's fine. The straight path is a wide path, and we all do things in our own ways and will be judged accordingly.

But that the others doing the scrutinizing would be a bunch of world-class journalists - professional sceptics and deconstructors - who specialize in science - tending to be atheist - made it all the more difficult. There was no shared theological sentiment to piggyback off of, or draw similarties between. They simply do not believe in anything, and do not understand why I do. It was not a matter of explaining why Jesus need not be Divine. But why there should even BE a Divine.

Not to mention I have awful stagefright.

*deep breath*

But it's done. I don't know if I did anything to further the cause of Islam. I don't know if I lifted any veils or changed any views. I doubt it. But I shared. And on the Day of Judgment, they will be one dozen less people to hold me to account for not relaying The Message. God-willing.

My life is a train wreck. Everyone knows that. Nothing ever happens as it should. I'm perpetually sabotaging myself. Everything is haphazard and half-assed. But hey, at least it's semi amusing. Right?

So help me find the punchline in this.

Sometime last week, a professor mentioned that there would be no class on Monday. A few days later, a different professor neglected to preview Monday's class topic. Then back at 'headquarters' I overheard some fellows talking about a weird holiday coming up. So I, ever the Sherlock Holmes, deduced that there'd be no class on Monday. Joy!

With that in mind, I planned my weekend. Instead of insanely attempting to cram as many hours of reading and homework in those two days as humanly possible, I took it easy. I caught up on missed sleep, did some cooking, prepared a presentation on Islam I was to give later in the week, and was chill. I recall even thinking to myself, as I lazed about and watched a documentary, how wonderful it felt to get an extra day for the weekend. How suddenly rich I was. How rosy the world seemed. How this should be done more often.

But come Sunday night, I begin to worry. Perhaps I'd misheard all this Monday mumbo jumbo. Maybe there really was class. It wouldn't be the first time I got the wrong end of things and misconstrued. So I quickly got on the websites of each Monday class and checked the announcements. No, nothing about a holiday. Then I got on the university site, and checked there, and even went through the posted calendar. No dice. And my inbox was pregnant with unwelcome news - my professors at an affiliated university had written to tell me that THEY'D have classes. Alas, foiled again.

Bereft of my extra day off, I sadly planned for school the next day. I set out my books, ironed my clothes, and set my alarm for an unkind 7:30 a.m. But interrupted mid-canter, I couldn't resettle. I was up half the night instead, my brain on overdrive, wondering if I'd suffer for not having read the million odd pages of literature needed for my classes in the morning. The worrying hum barely subsided for an hour's rest before I popped up like a piece of toast at 7 the next morning.

Like a good little student, I pulled my groggy self together. I checked the internet one last time for this mysterious and now elusive day off, and not finding it, I went out in to the cold morning air.

And what did I find at university? Nothing. No one. Not only was my class empty, but the entire building was as well. They'd even fenced off the big court yard where lazy geniuses like to sunbathe between classes. For even the densest of students - me - the message was clear. No class. Sad, sleepy and gutted, I got back on my bike, and pedalled away.

To headquarters. Where I alone sit, typing up a sad blog. Sigh.

It's Ramadan. What are you praying for?

It's so easy to ask. For anything. When you're a kid, that's the first thing about God and religion they teach you. Pray for stuff. So you ask for a pony, a new bike, or good grades. Sometimes, you get them. Sometimes you forget you'd even asked, already having moved on to your next pie in the sky. And sometimes, it never comes and you never forget.

Then after years of calling on God only before report cards and birthday parties, we're granted some maturity. No more embarrassing requests. Now we have wisdom, so we begin to ask for the immaterial. It too has value and it too is in His store. So God give us strength. And love. And maybe good grades.

In time, we grow experienced with this thing called prayer, and become magnanimous. Like a child who has played all that he can play with his new toy, we offer to share. Now we come to pray more for other than for ourselves. We ask for their health, mankind's unity, someone's peace of mind.

Then eventually, we reach the end. No longer do we put in orders with God, laying out our wishlists, wracking our brains to word the poetic request. We do not deign even to suggest what is good. Instead we ask for God to sit as Judge and Deliverer. "Please, lord. Whatever is best."

And that is the hardest. Our faith is called Islam - Peace Through Submission - for a reason. We submit that He has all that can be given. And if we are truly wise, we submit that He knows what should be given. So we ask for His decision and His Generosity. And we wait.

Wanting and dreading the cure.

I'm a bit of a late bloomer. I was sort of a dark and morose kid, a slightly scary and destructive teenager, and a non-existent young adult. So a lot of the things that most 25 year olds take for granted, I just don't know.

Take people, and parties. There was a honking big shindig down in College-Land this evening. My program got invited by another program to come down and network. With my slogan being 'just do it' (as long as its kosher), I sort of had to go. My life, otherwise, is becoming frighteningly science centric, and that's not healthy. So I after a day's worth of trying not to nod off, I biked home, and did one of my confusing (to other people) costume changes, morphing from scuzzy tomboy to Scherezade. Or rather, a dimestore version of her, but what do these Amreekans know. Kitted out in colorful scarves, skirt and boots, I set off.

Along the way, I ran into a fellow fellow and together we entered an Ivy League club house - a lovely few hundred year old mansion with manicured gardens, full to the brim of bluebloods and geriatrics, with the odd ladder scrambling journalist thrown in. It lacked only the "Nobodies not allowed" sign on the door, which would have been the equivalent of cross and garlic against this little humbug. But they forgot, and I got in.

The place was jumping, with suited waiters going about with unidentifiable cracker things, and lots of red-faced shmoozing. As neither of us knew anyone there, the fellow and I just sort of hung out. He scarfed hor de oeuvres while I cracked jokes, mainly. Then two more fellow fellows showed up and gravitated to us, and we become four intruder-feeling fellows among the hundred or so of suit-wearing poshy folk.

Now here is the thing. I CAN talk. I am a well socialized shy person. If I have to, I do manage to find my way through the bog of chatter and human static. It's an acquired skill, something I picked up when I was a camp counselor and honed as a beat reporter. So as this was a slightly awkward soirée, I pressed the button and became Owl the Entertainer.

I joked, philosophized and did a lot of thoughtful nodding and polite laughing. Soon our group grew, and when I went to find a drink when Iftar finally rolled around, I kept getting waylaid by random dudes. This one wanted to meet 'new people' and that one said 'we had to find time to get together.' I ended up running out on some odd little man who felt like he had to keep clinking my glass (I'm drinking coke here, ya moron!), leaving early and going home.

So now I'm a bit confused and feeling a bit bad. I mean, how did Owl, the grouchy one, she of the glass-shattering scowl and potent pessimism, give off the wrong signals. What, if I'm not being a total pill then a neon sign goes on over my head unbeknown to me? Or is this an American thing? People know their limits back in the East. I dunno. Hmph.

Ei cheese. I've got an headache. So pardone, as my Spanish colleague says, if I'm not my usual lemon-yellow self.

Deep thoughts, quick, think deep thoughts. Hmmmmm.... nope. Got nuttin.

So in lieu of a real blog of any sort, I shall turn the mic over to you. Yes you. And you too. Who the hell are you all? I mean, some of you I know. You're either related to me, someone I'm blackmailing for increased visitor stats, or a friend type animal. But a bunch of yous, I have no idea how it is you've come to find this little corner of the universe where Owlieness (yes, it has become a verb) is it.

So please, do tell. Who are you, why are you here, and what's up? And what's your favorite ice cream flavor? Cuz I'm fasting right now and I want some! I can't buy it while I'm out in the day cuz it'll melt during the bike home, and I can't have it in the evening, cuz I'm home, and far away from all the ice cream places, that I'm now too tired to bike to. This is what is known as a VICIOUS circle. RAAAH! I think. I could be wrong.

And additionally, while I'm being a very impious and demanding Muslim, I'll ask that you tell me something amaaaaazing. Like..... I dunno. Something that'll knock my socks off. Or at least curl my toes. You know.

There are a couple things about the fellowship that leave me in a cold sweat. The big one, is how will I bike during a New England winter. And the second one is, how will I keep my head above the raging waters of intense academia when Ramadan starts.

What with me living from one cup of tea to the next, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty, so I fasted over the weekend. I usually break myself into Ramadan with some preliminary fasts on my weekends, to make sure I can crash if struck by migraine.

Sunday was no different. Even sleeping till the afternoon couldn't save me from one of those blinding headaches, leaving me loggy and grouchy all day. How would I fare when I had to be up on Monday at 7, with only 4 hours of sleep (homework + insomnia), with a full day of classes running until 7 in the evening?
Subhanallah.

Day 2 of fasting, I woke up, groggy, but fine, and biked the 5 miles to campus in record time. Once there, I dodged catering trucks at the courtyard outside class, unloading thousands of sandwiches, drinks and snacks. Turns out today is Free Picnic Day, or something like that. Great. I pulled my hungry self away from the bountiful excess, and ran to class.

In College-Land the first class of the day is always like a casual brunch. Everyone's sipping coffee and eating muffins. Except me. But amazingly, I was alert and interested without the aid of my drug of choice - caffiene. Could this last?

Not so it seemed. The the second course for the day got cancelled, leaving me lost and disappointed - not to mention with three hours to burn. I should nap, I reasoned. I could crash any second now. I lay down for half an hour and never slept a wink. I spent the rest of the break reading my course material and sending emails.

The third class of the day was the most intense one I have this semester - climate physics. And if the name isn't scary enough, the prof decided to bust out the hardcore thermal dynamics and chemistry formulas - stuff I don't know on a good day. Still, I managed to not nod off, and even asked a question. Granted, it was a dumb question, but when are mine not?

The last class of the day would be the ultimate challenge. First, I couldn't seem to find it. The course schedule said it'd be in room 101 at 4:30 p.m., but as I frantically paced the hallway, no one showed. Finally, a woman bearing catering bags unlocked the classroom and I followed her in. Yes, class will be starting in half an hour, and this all is the free dinner.

Egad.

So I sat through another two hour class, this one with a meal being passed before my very eyes. Yet I managed to pay attention and catch the prof's eye - platonically of course. When class ended, with a few minutes till iftar, he came over and kindly told me the meal was halal for Muslims, and when I tried to bow out with the explanation that I was fasting, he said I should take a plate with me.

And I did. I survived my terrifying 15 hour fast on 4 hours of sleep with 11 hours of classes, without a single stumble, and got an unexpected free iftar. Say it with me again - Subhanallah!

The first day of school always filled me with dread when I was a kid. I don't know exactly what was wrong about it. I wasn't an awful student or anything, nor was I overtly picked on, but I always sorta hated it.

On many 'last day of summers' I would seriously think about throwing myself under a passing car to get out of going. Yep, 9 year old Owl was dramatic AND stupid. No resemblance to the Owl of today at all. Right? RIGHT?!

Anyways.... *squints*.... as the holidays would come to a close, I'd stand at the roadside and wonder if that stunt would garner me a magic Get Out Of Jail Free card, by way of a broken bone and a hospital stay. Death never factored into it, so lets be thankful I never really gave it a try.

Then it's ironic, fitting, and other suchlike things that on my first day of 'real school' down in the Ivy League, I get hit by a car. Or, um, a car got hit by me. Depending on how you look at it. 0_o

It goes like this...

I was lost. As I am always mentally, and on the occassionally, physically as well. But that day I had missed my turn, crossed a street, and found myself in front of a sign sending me to Boston. Did I mention I go to class in Cambridge? So I hit the brakes on my bike and did an aboutface. The light was still red, so I lurched forward, but as I crossed the second car, it changed to green, and the driver gunned it.

*SCREEEEEE*
*CLUNK*

I dunno exactly what happened next. I think I sorta put my foot down, and pulled my bike back and away with my hands. It saved the wheel, but the driver sorta whammed my shin. Or maybe I threw the bike into it, I dunno. I didn't really stop to see. I glanced down at his slightly damaged bumper, looked if the wheels of my bike were at any unnatural angles, and kicked off again. I think I heard him asking if I was okay as I sped away to class, to which I just waved and shouted "sorry!"

On later inspection, after class, I found a lovely goose-egg on my oft goose-egged shin, and a small gouge. BATTLE WOUNDS! Which, alas, I can't really show to anyone, as they're on limbs that a proper Muslim lady does not expose. And no, we don't have any extra secret light-unfriendly appendages that the non-Muslim variety don't have. We just cover our arms and legs, in case ya didn't know. And no, I'm not really a proper Muslim lady either, but I do try.

So the conclusion of my little run-in? It was all for nought. Firstly, I did not get out of class. I still had to peddal my way down to "Why Oil is Not Good for the World and What I've Figured Out to Be the Real Solution." Yeah the prof called it something else, but really, that's what they all boil down to. Everyone is wrong, and Mr Lecturer is The Genius. Got it.

And on top of that, I couldn't even show off my well-earned scuffs. Cuz they were on my supremely cloaked and protected shin. Can't be flashing that thing, the world can't haaaaaandle it.

So, next time, Owl, we must plan our accidents to involve exposed body parts - such as, The Toe, The Hand, or The Wrist. But not The Face, cuz that'd hurt a lot and I sort of need it to eat and talk. My two most important activities.

And also, the run-ins gotta be of a little more severity, hopefully involving cool casts that all of my Ivy League friends can sign and confess undying adoration upon. Yes, indeed.

And next time, make sure the car hits YOU, not the other way round. Looks better in writing, prevents lawsuit, and is far more sympathy-inducing.

Duly noted. Done and done.

I will one day write my Treatise on Air Travel. It will be an undertaking of the most impressive type, in the great tradition of Plato, Johnathan Swift and Chris Rock. In this document, long in the works, I shall tackle the ‘flying question.’ Namely – why the HELL do we do it?

In the mean time, have a rant.

You have to leave your belt, shoes, jacket, and dignity at the door when you fly. It’s no longer a service that you’ve paid for but organized masochism or purchased penitence, depending on how you swing.
It starts with the carry-on screening.
The restrictions on what you can safely travel with in-cabin changes by the minute, so pardon me if this is stale. Right now, I know that you can’t have nail clippers or manicure scissors in your bag. Also, extremely hazardous lotion and mouthwash must be kept in 1 ounce amounts, in a clear plastic bag, so we can keep our eyes on them at all times, in case they want to get up to any mischief. It’s also a great way to get the dirt on the passengers. Those Preparation H tubes are annoyingly legible from any distance. But don't worry, it's all for the greater good.
If you set off the evil/metal detector, you’ll have to go back and try again after removing jewellery, watches, large buttons, artificial limbs, and teeth fillings. Screw up again and you’re off to the ‘special line’ where your dust particles will be analyzed for criminal intent and bouffant hairstyles will be probed. Who cares that these checks don’t actually screen for, lets say, outstanding warrants. We’re saving the world, one family-sized Pert Plus, at a time.
With these red flag restrictions, you can get a pretty good visualization of the Air Travel Anti-Christ that global security is out to stop. They’d have a mane of hair about three feet long, for which no travel-sized shampoo bottle would do justice, and no little 24 ounce bag could hold all their beauty products. Their clothes would be excessively zippered, buttoned, and perhaps bejeweled, each little bit of metal playing havoc with airline security. And to top it off, they’d probably have some a plate in their head or an alien implant that would defy even the most invasive of secondary checks. It’s either Miss America or The Hells Angels. I don’t like either, so perhaps I shouldn’t complain.
Get through the screening without a strip search, wait the unnecessary 1-2 hours before boarding, and you’re soon up in the air, getting the full-on flight experience.
In the real world, when you pay a minimum of $150 an hour to be somewhere, you get quality in return. Somehow though, that does not apply to the airline industry. They get away with giving you nothing for something. Well, that’s not true. Flying economy you do get cramps, pain, and a stomachache.
It begins with the seating. The seats are an ergonomic atrocity. They jut out at the head, shy away where back support ought to come in, cut in at the arms, and poke from below. Think if LayZboy married an Iron Maiden. These upholstered demon spawn are then crammed together, back to front and side by side, leaving comfortable leg space for petite amputees.
For the rest of us, the flight is spent scrolling through areas of pain. Either your legs will fall asleep from the unnatural angle of the chair, or your knees will get bruised and achy from being smashed up against the seat in front of you, or you’ll lose a kidney from the constant stabbing of the arm rest. Or, in rebellion to it all, you become one of those passengers who commandeers the chair (and passenger) beside you for greater ease. That is another issue altogether, though I’m not sure the airlines are to blame for the poor quality of flight neighbor.
Those foolish enough to want to get up from their thousand-dollar torture chamber must resort to the undignified ‘crab wobble.’ It involves sticking one’s rear out, typically into the face of those seated beside you, and stooping your shoulders while you side-step on tip-toe, to the aisle. But ugly as that sounds, you’ll need to get up and take a break. In fact, if you stay too long in those anarchistically arched seats you actually face the risk of a blood clot, which the airline will sweetly warn you about, but do nothing to prevent.
But its not to say that the airline industry isn’t progressing.
There are hundreds of airlines around the world, each with a hierarchy of services and classes for their passengers. Their stewards and stewardesses come dressed in the most amazing variety of truncated cultural garb, speaking scores of languages, showcasing the artificial “I wish I could smack you but I’m paid not to” smile in all the world’s races. Seated in the variety of planes, served by the random air staff, we travel to thousands of destinations around the world.
And all together, they now serve the most amazing range of crappy food. You can get horribly hot and greasy curry slurry when you travel South Asian airlines; stuff so bad it’d melt the metal plates at a Punjabi truck stop. Fly European, and you get to dine on the blandest, grossest and strangest concoctions involving smoked meats, poorly curdled milk passing as cheese, and limp vegetation. The Arab airlines fall somewhere in the middle – some going ethnic with heartburn inducing Vada-Dal combo (you didn’t know Oman was in Kerala, did you?), while other times torturing you with attempted continental delights like Stone-Hard Chicken Breast in Ichor. And no you can’t have a real knife to cut it, a terrorist could use that bit of unsuspecting silverware and a small aubergine to hotwire this baby into a nuke!
Of course, most American airlines don’t even BOTHER with food any more. You get handed a tiny pack of salty snacks and little cup of coke-coated ice, and are told to silently starve for the next five hours. Pity the fool who passed on the $10 slice of pizza at the airport, because once you’re up in the air, even diabetic shock won’t get them to produce anything more. Pretzels for all that ails ye. Perhaps it was in desperation of such a travel situation that Bush Junior nearly ended his own life with those salt-encrusted crunchies.
Last, is the baggage claim. Ever notice the small print on your ticket. It says the airline is not responsible for damage incurred to your luggage in the form of wear, broken zippers, snapped off handles, scuffing, or scratching. Why the hell not?! I give you a piece of new Louis Vitton luggage, and I get back Lou the Looney luggage – one wheeled, broken handled, with an ungainly wobble and an awful smell. The damn stewardess won’t give me a whole can of coke, but the airline can devalue something worth thousands without blame?
Of course, getting a dinged up bag back is the least of your worries. You’re lucky nowadays to get ANYTHING back. Last time I flew international, my layover airport was flooded and in the madness they lost a suitcase containing half of my life. It was gone without a trace, and I could only claim about $2,500 in damages if I was lucky. So at best, I'm worth only about $5,000. Great.
But after a week, I came home and it was there, sitting on my doorstep with a big FedEx label on it. I was ecstatic, until I got it inside and opened it up. I got my own souvenir from the London Flood of 2007 – pond scum. My bag was soaked, its contents moldering, and nearly everything ruined. So don’t say the airlines never give you anything for free.