BootsnAll Articles

The Glamour of Flying (1 of 2)

I am sitting right now on the plane bound for Newark, New Jersey, following a wonderful trip to visit my in-laws in Ireland. I remember my first flight as a child. We were going from New Orleans to Tampa, Florida. I recall how I was a little bit uncomfortable because my mother had me dressed in a coat and tie for the flight. My complaints were met with the reasoning that one must dress appropriately; after all, we were flying, not riding on a bus. I accepted this answer and noted that I was not the only one suffering in this way, as my father always wore a suit to fly and my mother dressed as if she were going for a night out on the town. So I follow their example and still refuse to fly in jeans, t-shirts, shorts or other such casual accoutrements.

I know, however, that I am being hopelessly provincial and self-righteous. I see the modern trend around me and am dismayed by the callous degradation of what used to be such a privileged mode of transport. This particular bout of depression began at the check-in at Shannon Airport.

After unloading our bags at the departures area, we join the queue for Continental Squalor Class check-in. We stand in the line and watch its painfully slow progress as each passenger is perfunctorily interrogated by the security agents about when we packed our bags, who packed them, and if we've been given anything to carry. I reflect on the difficulty of carrying our own heavy things and mentally review the vile curses I would have hurled at anyone who would presume to add to the burden.

The line moves glacially slowly. Several waiting passengers die of old age in the queue. All ten passengers in Continental Better-Than-You Class have checked in and the ticket agent sits at the desk with absolutely nothing to do other than once in a while cast scalding glances at passengers in the line traveling with the pigs and chickens. Though all the Snotty Class passenger have all checked in, she does not offer to check any of the other passengers, though our queue has lengthened to titanic proportions.

As we make our way to the Slum Class desk I note that the same straggly-haired woman has been occupying the attention of one of the three ticket agents since we entered the airport. I can hear wisps of their conversation and gather that she has somehow come to the wrong airport. Furthermore, she doesn't see why that should be anyone's problem but the airline's. There is an elderly couple at the second desk who seem to have a problem with their identification. Can they not find it, or do they simply not remember who they are or why they're here? These customers have stagnated the lines so that effectively, there is one ticket agent left to administer an entire 757-load of passengers. It still does not occur to the Snob Class desk agent to tear herself away from her fingernail inspection to help any of us other desperate travelers.

After an era or two, we manage to get ourselves checked in at the desk. Though we requested the emergency exit and this request was indeed cheerfully acknowledged by our delightfully snide desk associate, when we double-checked our seating arrangements, our seats are not assigned in the promised row. I wonder what parliamentary documentation she expected from us to verify our request for these seats. Uttering a condescending grunt, she tears up the non-emergency exit boarding passes and casts them into the rubbish bin with a dramatic flourish before hacking away at the keyboard to issue our requested seats.

Later as we board the plane, we find our seats and stow our duty-free in the overhead bin. I was amazed to find a few square inches of unoccupied space there, as everyone else seems to be in a competition to see who could bring the largest volume of carry-on luggage.

My wife and I settle into our seats and behold the onslaught of passengers. My favorites are the families with an assortment of irritable children. Some come with the added luxury of children with the auto-cry feature, those charming young urchins whose wails you can hear miles down the concourse. Yes, these are the lights of my life, and I am happy to be reminded of this as a family of five boards the plane. Mercifully, one child is of an age that he has begun to be embarrassed by anything his parents do, and much to my joy he sulks quietly in a corner.

Unfortunately there is an infant in mother's arms, as well as a boy of about six or seven — old enough to strike that delicate balance between obnoxious and charming. In other words, clever enough to be obnoxious yet charming enough to cover it up so as not to get in trouble. I immediately develop a despise for this child. Mom and Dad get into an argument about who will sit with the kiddies and who will sit in the seat about eight rows back, as the family unit has been split up by the same graciously accommodating ticket wench that "helped" us. Their disagreement has again stagnated the line and the flow of passengers is backed up out the door.

We are admonished via the public address to contemplate our seat assignment quandaries while not blocking the aisle. Dad, dressed in stylish red basketball shorts and an undersized t-shirt that completely covers neither his low-slung beer belly or his butt crack, ends up sitting with Sourpuss and Prince Charming while Mom takes the Shrieking Machine to the rear of the plane.

Several more families are herded onto the plane, kids bleating in hysterical tones before even sitting down. I am gratified to find out how many screaming babies I will be subjected to long before that tedious wait to actually ascend to altitude before the full decibels are released. There are no fewer than four in my immediate vicinity, as well as several more distant screeches in the front and rear of the plane.

I am sitting in the much-coveted middle seat, between my wife and a man who begins establishing well-defined territory boundaries between "his seat" and "my seat." The armrest that I had raised to create more room is lowered and an errant strap on my backpack under the seat in front of me is repositioned to reflect the terms of the unspoken treaty that had apparently evolved between us. He turned out to be from Cork, so I attributed this behavior as a holdover from the same Irish mentality that built those odd little walls that surrounded individuals' land in Ireland, whether grazing fields for cattle or rose gardens in the heart of the city.