Random thoughts on the nature of flying after a weekend spent traveling:
• The contrast between an airport during the week and on the weekend couldn't be more stark. During the week, an airport is a virtual city unto itself, a constant beehive of activity. If it ever sleeps, it doesn't sleep much and when it does its awakened by a reminder that Flight 6824 will now be departing from a gate two spaces down because ... well, just because.
On the weekend terminals turn into one of those science fiction movies where you're left to wonder where all the people are and what happened to them? Short answer: They went home.
During the weekday, business travelers board a plane with military precision. Bag deftly hurled into the overhead, strange neck roll thing in place, huge bug-like noise-cancelling headphones on and presentation of safety instructions ignored since our spouses report we can and often do recite them in our sleep. Rear end down, wheels up, let's go.
Business travelers "deplane" faster than the 101st Airborne and cause only slightly less havoc when they hit the ground. But at least they keep moving.
The weekend? Not so much. First there is the Darwinian experience of getting on the plane in groups ("Now boarding Group 2. Feel free to outwit, outlast and outplay."). Then, the very nice, VERY patient flight attendant faces the task of getting in place lots and lots of people who don't do this very much, don't really understand the somewhat arcane numbering system and didn't realize modern plane seats make the Gemini space capsule seem roomy. Sort of like seating cats with a hair dryer.
Then the attendant has to put up with the smart guy who managed an emergency row seat and who, when asked if he feels he can open the escape hatch, says "how about I try it right now and see?" Could have been me. Not saying, one way or the other.
And the attendant has to do all of this secure in the knowledge that this is the first flight of the morning and this is going to go on all ... day ... long. So, if an inventory reveals a few of those tiny little bottles of Jack Daniels (say, 12) are missing, well, I'm not blaming anyone.
• I wonder if in the event the guy sitting in back of me and jamming his knees into my chair got twitchy leg syndrome, would it qualify as a shiatsu massage life hack?
• Prostate exam. Mass high school athletics physical. The line at the DMV. Nope, the security check at the airport still wins as the most dehumanizing yet necessary activity in the world. At least no one tells you to turn your head and cough or that you'll feel "a little pressure."
• And one more observation from the security check line: On those rare occasions when teenage boys actually wear sure-enough, up-over-the-ankles, non-white socks, why do they pick (or even have) a pair with a hole as big as a bagel in them? I'm in a certain large store with rows and rows of stuff, including socks, so many times during the week that I almost have to bring carts in from the parking lot. And yet, my youngest is wearing some that look like they're designed to give you two options for putting them on.
Now I understand why my father sighed a lot and stared off into space.
• I only saw one "emotional support animal" in the terminal, and it was actually a dog and not a pot-bellied pig, Shetland pony, goose or whatever else provides comfort for those in need of such (not judging, just ... noticing). I have my emotional support big ol' cup of coffee, so, we're both good. Whatever gets you through the flight. However, I'm not wearing yoga pants, so I'm feeling not quite appropriately dressed. Which in this case might be a good thing. I mean, me and yoga pants ... yeah.
• I don't care if you're a member of the Blue Angels, at that point immediately after takeoff when the plane quits going up and levels off, which causes just the slightly hesitation, a little voice in your head has got to say "you know, this flying thing really is impossible, right?"
And yet, it isn't.
• "Welcome to (Large Metropolitan Connecting Airport)! We've just landed, but since we're on the Seventh Circle of Runway, we'll start taxiing now and expect to be at the terminal by nightfall at the latest. Don't worry, we'll be stopping at the midway point for food and water and to take on fuel. Please remember which plane is yours since, yeah, they all look alike."
OK, so, the reality is that I complain about flying, because, well, I complain about the number of peanuts in my Rocky Road ice cream. But the idea that you can be safely and (relatively) quickly transported halfway across the country to be with your loved ones and then brought safely and securely back again shouldn't go unappreciated. Neither should the people who make it possible, and who put up with people like me while doing it.
So, thanks, folks. See you again next time I fly.
Commentary on 05/27/2016