Being a bit of an ocean lover, for years I made fun of people living in the Midwest. When love beat me with a stick until I was senseless (as it often does) and forced me to move to Texas to be near my now wife, my only rule was that I got to leave the state several times a year. Eleven years later after becoming a transplanted Texan (yippie ki-yay… they don’t let you say that unless you live here) life has become busy and mentally needed trips away from the intense ‘longhorniness’ have become fewer and fewer.
Earlier this year I was really getting a bit stir crazy. Well, crazier than usual (I know, scary thought). Then through a strange turn of events, I have had several business trips and a few mini vacations all squashed together in a short time frame. Suddenly I am Traveling Boy again. Yippie ki-yay (remember, I can officially say that… don’t try it at home if you live elsewhere). I used to be on the road for nine months a year so I’m pretty comfortable with flying, although nowadays it does have that ‘Greyhound bus in the sky’ feel to it. Except Greyhound buses tend to have more comfortable seats, wider aisles and more legroom. They also have the scary other bus riders, which frighteningly enough tends to be the bigger downside to bus riding over the longer time to get there aspect. Luckily for me all my trips were by plane but with 14 flights in such a short time frame you really get to see the good, the bad and the very ugly.
I still remember the first time I flew on an airplane back in the early 1970s. I sat next to my brother Neil during an Eastern Airlines flight from New York to Atlanta on a family vacation. He made fun of me for years afterwards for giving the armrest the death grip during the take-off and landing. I think it is a sad and embarrassing statement about myself that my only real memory of the flight is not of shooting through the sky in an aircraft or watching out the window as the full sized world turned into a patchwork quilt, or the puffy white clouds that looked so dense that you can imagine walking on them. No, my clearest recollection is of the strange meal served in little white odd shaped plastic plates and bowls with cold silverware sealed in plastic. That might be a bit of foreshadowing about my future food/weight issues.
As with most fairly frequent fliers, I have my share of stories. Nobody enjoys the hassle of removing your shoes, belt, laptop, etc but there really should be two separate lines for the ones that know what they are doing and the ones that don’t. Like picking the wrong grocery store check-out aisle with the inevitable older confused check-writing couponesta, I always seem to pick the line behind the unprepared traveler that ends up ransacking their overstuffed luggage as they seem surprised about the simple security procedures that are posted on the multiple instruction placards prominently displayed inches from their face.
While going through a long line at security last week, an annoying woman confused by the basic concept of removing your shoes and liquids, made a sarcastic comment to me about no one ever bringing down a plane because their carry-on liquids were over three ounces each. I usually bite my tongue when I’m in an airport for fear of ending up on a No-Fly list with Cat Stevens, but because despite obviously knowing the rules she still seemed unable to actually follow them, I decided to tell her the true story about how when I was hijacked “they initially commandeered the plane by spraying people with gasoline that had been brought on in little Afrin and Neo-Synephrine nasal-spray bottles.” As usual, telling someone about to get on a plane that you were hijacked tends to stop any whining and complaining. ( https://mrdvmp.wordpress.com/2007/11/22/aug-27-1980-part-2-the-hijack/ )
During that same flight I ended up sitting next to that disheveled passenger that rushes onto the plane just as they are about to lock the door dropping various possessions as they squeeze down the aisle making a scene. Rondella slapped me in the head with her overstuffed purse/luggage as she climbed over me to the middle seat. She then proceeded to use her smartphone to post messages on her FACEBOOK page long after being instructed to put them away. Finally the flight attendant stood over us and said neither she nor the plane would move until the phone was put away. Cursing and complaining, she did until the flight attendant was out of sight and then started it up again muttering loudly to herself.
You can learn some interesting things flying. During that flight I learned that Rondella was from New Orleans but works out in Vegas as a dancer in an urban ‘strip hop’ club. Being a middle aged white guy that does not frequent strip bars, I didn’t even know urban ‘strip hop’ clubs existed. I did not realize how niche marketed they had become. Are there ‘Japanese trance karaoke bondage’ strip clubs? (And how do you stop the guests from taking pictures?) Could there be a strip club featuring only pasty white overweight Germans that remove their clothes to polka music in an Oktoberfest atmosphere? I guess the ‘Afghan Chadri Namus Burqa’ anti-strip club would not be very titillating.
Most of my flights have been pretty good. Business class to Europe did not suck; although I did feel a little guilty when I walked by the sardine-can like conditions in the back of the plane when I left my chair/bed/pod to stretch my legs. The odd thing about flying is when you don’t do it very often you really look forward to the trips away. The more you fly, the more you look forward to the flights back home. Even if home is in Texas (yippie ki-yay).
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