We stayed up until four, in my kitchen, trying new itineraries and reading the Greenland website. The flight was eight hours away.

"Biggest island," Hand said.

"Official language is Greenlandic," I noted.

"Not just Greenlandic -West Greenlandic. West Greenlandic, as spoken in Sisimiut, Maniitsoq and the Nuuk area, is the official language of communication throughout Greenland. East Greenlandic is very different from West Greenlandic, but most East Greenlanders understand West Greenlandic."

"Total population is 53,000."

"Ice covers eighty-five percent of the landmass."

"They're desperate for tourists. They get about 8,000 a year, but they're shooting for 60,000."

"They name their winds. Listen: East Greenland has the Piteraq, a cold katabatic wind, a well-known and much-feared wind phenomenon. The highest gusts to date in Ammassalik were recorded in 1972 and measured 72 m/sec."

"What's katabatic?"

"As a visitor to Greenland, it is important to note the following: The weather can change abruptly, and technical hitches may occur. So it is always advisable to enquire with GreenlandAir the evening before -- or at the latest the same day."

"Technical hitches. Are they talking about the weather?"

"I think so."

We fell asleep in the living room, Hand on the couch and me on the recliner, and at eight woke with two hours to gather everything and go. We had agreed not to pack before the morning, and this turned out to be easy to honor, the actual packing involving the stuffing in of two shirts, underwear, toiletries and a miniature atlas, which took three minutes. Passports, tickets, the $32,000 in traveler's checks, the bandannas. Hand brought some discs, his walkman, a handful of tapes for the rental cars, some State Department traveler's advisories, and a sheaf of papers he'd printed from the Center for Disease Control website, almost entirely about ebola. He could talk forever about ebola. I threw in a Churchill biography I was reading, but after swinging the pack over my shoulders and feeling the weight of the 1,200 pages, I unpacked the book, ripped out the first 200 and last 300, and shoved it back in.

We fell back asleep on the couch. At ten-thirty, with a spasm we woke again -

TUESDAY

– and left and slept in the cab, each of our heads against a window, out cold; the cabbie woke us when stopped under the awning of O'Hare's international arm. The airport's quiet doors opened for us and we trotted to the desk happily, the airport tall and light, Hand whistling John Denver's relevant song, and at the desk we were told our flight was canceled; the airport in Kangerlussuaq was closed because of winds.

"It can't be," I said.

"The katabatic winds," Hand said.

"Jesus."

"We've only got one fucking week."

The woman said we could go halfway, to Iqaluit, and wait.

For how long? we asked.

"Who knows?" she said, not looking at me. She'd been talking to Hand and I realized why. My face. "They're waiting." She pointed to a group of people on a bench across the way. They looked like they were going to Greenland, all with parkas, backpacks and beards. We looked like we were going to play softball.

"We can't wait," I said.

"We have to go," said Hand.

So Greenland was out. Katabatic my ass. Fuck Greenland. I looked to Hand. Was that anguish or shock? The GreenlandAir woman suggested we hold onto the tickets and use them tomorrow. Hand look like he'd burst.

"We've already lost so much time," he said.

"It's only noon," the woman said.

"Noon!" he said. I didn't know why he was so upset. It was my damned idea.

We walked out of the terminal and paced around in the cold, running through possibilities, Hand babbling. Hand has a way of talking to you, eyes staring through yours, unblinking, jaw moving that suggests either great intensity or plain country madness.

A Lincoln Towncar pulled up and from it disembarked a black family in bright dashikis. A skycap appeared and helped them with their bags. The African father paid the skycap with two bills, nodding with the placement of each upon the skycap's palm, and the skycap said "Thank you, sir." The family walked in and through the shushing slowly closing automatic doors and I watched them glide, bright fabric swishing, to the Air Afrique desk, a few feet from GreenlandAir. I walked in after them and Hand followed.

On the small ancient screen their flight was listed in weak green light. Air Afrique, 1:50 p.m. to Dakar.

"Where's Dakar?" Hand asked.

I dug into my backpack and checked my atlas.

"Senegal."

The tickets cost us $1,600 for the pair, one-way, a price I justified by thinking – wrongly – that we'd get a refund on the Greenland two. It was the most money I'd ever spent at once. Even the two cars I'd ever bought were less – $800 and $1,400, both Corollas. I thought of the people who could live or eat off money like this – how many people and for how long. We were motherfucking bastards. I buried the shame deep within. I burned it and danced around it, leapt over it. We were going to Senegal and I got the tickets so we'd return to O'Hare from Cairo. That way we'd fly to Dakar, would be able to get across the continent and end up at the Pyramids before flying back – and wouldn't have to see Dakar twice. Genius.

We were told to wait for a gate assignment. The floor was now full of Senegalese in dashikis, mostly men, all black, all with glasses, silver-framed, looking like a U.N. delegation or some kind of… some kind of group of men who liked to dress the same. After fifteen minutes an announcement was made. The flight, scheduled to leave at 1:50 P.M., would be late in taking off. We walked to the desk. How late? we asked. It was now scheduled, the woman said with a straight face, for 9 P.M. Hand fell to his knees. He was hammy that way. I waited for him to get up, which he did with a clap as punctuation, and we walked away.

"This is a joke," he said.

"The dashiki guys aren't mad," I said, pointing to their group, chatting, milling. They seemed at peace, resigned.

Hand wanted to try again, to get a refund and fish for anything else. Togo, Franz Josefland. I couldn't decide. Where were the flights that actually left the ground? All we wanted was another continent, as soon as possible. We asked if they knew anything more about the departure time, the possibilities. Were they sure it would be so late? How could they be so sure?

The Air Afrique woman had an answer: "Because the plane hasn't left Dakar yet."

The plane from Chicago to Dakar hadn't left Dakar for Chicago.

There was a shuttle bus taking the passengers to the Best Western, where we were each given a room. We had six hours. The shuttle bus filled and left and another arrived. We sat next to a young thin man, his head in his hands.

"Air Afrique. Every time," he said. He was in a grey pinstriped suit. He looked about twenty-four, probably a student. Silver-framed glasses. Senegalese, we guessed, from the accent.

"Are they a bad airline?" Hand asked. I wanted to ask why all the men going to Senegal were wearing the same glasses. Were they government-issued to men, as were pointy shoes in Italy?

"Their safety record is fine," he said, "but they take their time. Always late. Terrible. They don't care."

Next to us a white man, resembling in every way David Carradine in his latter Kung Fu days, was talking to another man, whom he had seemingly just met. We listened. We couldn't help but listen – Carradine was loud and they were sitting inches from us. The other man was from Ghana and was visiting Senegal for the first time. Why he was coming through Chicago to do so was unclear but Carradine was the character here, lower teeth small, fishlike and sharp, a headband around his neck, stringy hair greasing his shoulders. We caught phrases, Hand and I leaning to hear the white man speak.