001 The Cross Island Parkway Our flight to San Francisco takes off in under an hour, but here we were, the three of us, bouncing along a foggy Cross Island Parkway with a stuffed trunk on route to John F. Kennedy Airport. Eyes closed, I was half-asleep and sunk into the backseat like a full-grown baby. Maybe I was low on juju, no doubt blind to the grey sky, but at least mesmerized by the cadence of rubber tires thumping on asphalt. Since I was a kid, bumpy roads always knocked me out. And it didn't help that Danielle and I were up, almost all night, stuffing half-broken suitcases with who knows what. We were too wiped out to drive. Thankfully, Pearl offered one of her many motherly services.