Before I’d even pulled the car door shut, the driver had already peeled away from the curb. One more thing about car service drivers in New York: they can never simply drive you to your destination like a normal person. Instead, they insist on driving as if I’ve just gotten into the backseat wearing a nylon stocking over my head and carrying a burlap sack with a dollar sign printed on the side while saying the words, “Go, go, go!”

There have been times when a car service car I was riding in has become briefly airborne–all four tires leaving the ground simultaneously–while taking a Brooklyn-Queens Expressway onramp. On yet another airport run, we once took a corner at such a dangerous rate of speed that the car momentarily went up on two wheels. No kidding.

If I ever minded this sort of insane driving, I don’t anymore. I find the whole experience–the weaving through traffic, the salsa music, the one side of the Bluetooth argument with his novia–kind of comforting, strange as that sounds. When I’m going to the airport in New York, this is the only appropriate way to arrive: in this ridiculously melodramatic, I-risked-my-damn-life-to-get-here fashion.

We arrived in record time, just before 8 p.m. I unloaded my luggage from the trunk, then bid farewell to the car service driver. Even when his car was half a terminal away, I could still hear the beat of the salsa music.

I’ve taken the Cathay Pacific redeye to Vancouver so many times over the last four or five years that I no longer have to think while checking in. I’ve gotten the process down to a science: check in; ask for an exit row seat, only to be turned down, already knowing that someone with incredibly short legs no doubt has already claimed the seat I should be sitting in; take the security line all the way to the far left (it’s always the fastest); once you are on the far side of security, head for the food court to buy a $9 chicken salad sandwich and $6 cous cous serving at Balducci’s Express; consume the food in the British Airways hey-plug-in-your-laptop sit-down area; once you’ve finished eating, pace from one end of the terminal to the other in the name of stretching my legs, knowing full well that I will basically have to sit still for five or six hours once the plane takes off; marvel at the new M & M store, which no one ever seems to shop at, and which features a large, blue anthropomorphic M & M riding a chopper motorcycle while adorned with a bandana and mirrored sunglasses a la (I guess?) Easy Rider; study the various passengers, wondering who they are and why they are here tonight; wonder, quite seriously, if any of them are famous actors or terrorists; study the store cashiers who, at around 9:30, begin to draw the steel shutters down on the front of their shops (an act which always makes you feel sad); walk by the closed Sapphire Lounge which has been mysteriously closed, steel shutters down, every time you have come through this terminal for the last five years (even though you can always see the lights on the cash register behind the lounge’s bar still blinking).

Use the bathroom, and feel annoyed at the motion-sensitive water and soap mechanisms which never work properly; purchase an issue of Vanity Fair, a “king size” Butterfinger bar which is about the size of a fireplace log, and a $4.67 bottle of Fiji water from Hudson Booksellers, even though you do not need any magazines or candy, and there will be plenty of free water on the flight; send a text to your friend John Teti which says, “I just let a big fart go in the Sports section of the airport bookstore,” then stand there giggling to yourself for two, maybe three minutes; laugh more when John responds by saying, “I think that is the designated area to do it in, by law”; find yourself wandering by the M & M store, noticing that it’s still open; resist the sudden urge to purchase something from the M & M store; note the mass of Chinese people who are already gathering next to Gate 5, your gate, and knocking together excitedly like cattle in a stall; notice how their anxiety about boarding the plane is contagious and becoming your anxiety; find yourself involuntarily gathering near them; then, get ahold of yourself and pull yourself out of there, and hang back–way back–telling yourself that it’s OK to let them get on the plane and rush to their seats, that this is not a contest of some kind, and that your seat, which you are entitled to, will still be waiting for you once they’ve boarded.

Use the terminal bathroom one last time; while in the bathroom, suddenly find yourself struck by the realization that the plane has somehow taken off without you; rush back out to Gate 5 only to see that the cluster of excited Chinese people has only dissipated a little; finally, board the plane, noticing how the fancy people go to the left and the less fancy people (you) are shunted to the right; notice the Chinese man who is no taller than Danny DeVito who is comfortably seated in the Exit Row; fume over this fact for a good 30, 40 seconds; find your seat–always a window seat somewhere closest to the front of the plane as possible (the sooner you can deplane on the far side of the journey, the better chance you have of getting through customs quickly)–and feel disappointed by how f***ing tiny your seat looks.

Fold your oversized self into the seat while enduring the frowns of your two row mates; be sure that all forms of entertainment–Nintendo DS, iPad, PSP, crossword puzzle book, magazines, books, candy, water, etc.–are crammed into the kangaroo pocket in front of you; endure the airplane’s stifling heat and claustrophobia as it sits idling on the ground; wonder if it will ever take off; then, once everyone is settled, feel the plane take off; lean your temple against the cool glass of the window; watch New York recede into the distance beneath you; then, fall asleep, waking just once when the meal is served; eat the meal while sitting next to the two frowning strangers at 34,000 feet in the middle of the night somewhere above Lake Erie; appreciate the fact that the meal on this flight always has not one but two desserts–a piece of cake and Pepperidge Farms pack of cookies–which is the only reason you bother waking up for the meal at all.

Then, fall asleep again, noticing how cold the plane feels now; cover your legs with the world’s smallest, most useless blanket; don’t wake up until the cabin lights come on at full strength, indicating that the plane is on final approach for Vancouver; feel the wheels hit the tarmac, and feel the reality of the rest of your night–hell, the rest of your life–come rushing back in; realize that you haven’t touched your games, puzzles, books, candy, etc. and feel a little silly about the great lengths you went to to make sure they were accessible during the flight; turn on your cellphone and see if your girlfriend has texted you during the flight; feel happy if she has; feel sad if she hasn’t; put on your jacket, grab your carry-ons, deplane, and make your way to customs, where you will be asked to explain who you are and where you have been; realize that answering these questions in your sleepy state is akin to having someone throw cold water over your head and give your slap across the face at the same time; find your luggage on the luggage carousel; exit the airport realizing that you can see your breath in the air; notice that it’s much colder tonight outside than you’d ever expected it to be.

Stage 6-8. This is the very last of the AIRPLANE stages, which means it’s time for another semi-predictable showdown with Donkey Kong himself. As has become typical of these stages, Pauline is at the top of the screen and D.K. is directly below her. He hurls barrels at regular intervals that cease to roll at specific points on the screen and upright themselves. As always, Mario must claim a barrel (hop on top of it, press B), then climb the nearby platforms, all in the name of eventually hurling the barrel at D.K. and giving him a barrel-shaped taste of his own medicine.

Of course, during your ascent, you must avoid subsequent barrels being hurled by D.K. And, since this is an AIRPLANE stage, you must mind the wind, which is blowing in its usual direction (left to right), and which can easily knock you off the smaller platforms–and into the twin bottomless pits at the edges of the screen–if you’re not mindful enough.

Your best bet for getting your tossed barrels to connect with D.K. is to climb onto one of the two platforms just below him. Jump towards him, letting the barrel go when you are at the highest point in your jump. I missed on my first attempt, but was able to connect on the next three attempts. And that’s what it takes to take D.K. down: three hits from your hurled barrels. As soon as the third barrel strikes him, the action halts, and D.K.’s “I’m Clobbered” animation plays out. Then he grabs Pauline, etc. and the AIRPLANE stretch of the game is over.

Totals for this portion of AIRPLANE stages:

Stage 6-5: 94 seconds

Stage 6-6: 70 seconds

Stage 6-7: 87 seconds

Stage 6-8: 149 seconds

Total: 400 seconds. Number of Marios remaining in my Mario tank: 34.

Next up: Stage 7-1 in an all-new section known as ICEBERG. See you there, folks.