Episode One: Turbulence, Large Craniums and Moving Sidewalks Our flight from Phoenix to Connecticut is as uneventful as any flight to Connecticut most likely is. Chris plays with the air vents and periodically points out that the safety seal on the exit door is broken. The turbulence is bad and I make Jurassic Park references
Episode One: Turbulence, Large Craniums and Moving Sidewalks
Our flight from Phoenix to Connecticut is as uneventful as any flight to Connecticut most likely is. Chris plays with the air vents and periodically points out that the safety seal on the exit door is broken. The turbulence is bad and I make Jurassic Park references with my bouncing cup of soda. He eats his pack of peanuts and loudly enjoys his Ginger Ale. We make bets on who will lose their luggage first, but to our surprise, both bags make the first leg of our trip. Of course, this makes us cocky and carefree.
The next leg of our journey is Cincinnati to London. Thirty minutes into our flight and the pilot announces that we have to land. I swear I hear a strange banging noise from the back of the plane. My audio senses are rewarded as the captain explains that due to a break in the seal of our cargo bay door, we are flying to the nearest airport for repairs. I am unsure as to whether or not I should be scared of a rapid loss of cabin pressure or a sudden steep dive to our deaths, but the rest of the plane seems unconcerned as the stewardess begins to pass out refreshments. As a precaution, I remain in a slightly stooped position, just in case they inform us to grab our ankles and pray.
We seem to be flying a bit fast for such a large, airborne object with a door slightly ajar. A look out the window shows that we have dropped our elevation enormously as we fly into Tennessee. I can not only see the rooftops of the town below us with great clarity, but I swear we are so low, I can tell the difference between a porch light and a bug-zapper. I wave to a small boy playing in his back yard. He waves back.
We land safely in Tennessee. They inform us that it will take only a moment to fix and that we will not be disembarking the airplane. Five minutes later they inform us that it will in fact take two hours to fix, and we will not be disembarking the plane. Though they are not allowing us to vacate this hell and go someplace more comfortable, like a shoebox, they are going to reward our imprisonment with the early distribution of our dinner and the showing of our in-flight movie.
Our dinner is the lovely choice of Southwestern Steak Fillet or Herbed Chicken. The smell of this luke-warm delight wafts its way through the cabin and I can’t help but finger my vomit bag in anticipation. The movie they are showing is The Age of Innocence, which I watched not two weeks ago.
After five minutes I cannot help but mention the obvious to Chris, this movie seems to lose everything when shown on an airplane. He says that he just wants Daniel Day-Lewis and his coy American accent to go away. He then rambles on about how he can’t get out of his mind that Michelle Pfeiffer was Catwoman. Apparently, she has ruined all other acting roles for herself as far as Chris is concerned.
The movie is only twenty minutes old and I am starting to become annoyed. The kid in the front row is acting like someone just stabbed him with a fork. At times like this, I wish I had studied Zen or self-hypnosis or the art of the self-inflicted coma, anything to help me escape from this twentieth-century hell we call public transportation. Chris is excited about ordering the Herbed Chicken for dinner.
Two hours later the captain tells us we need to disembark the aircraft. I assume the glue on the newly fixed door did not dry properly and heaven knows the airline does not want to make us any more uncomfortable than we have to be. The flight crew has thoughtfully abandoned us and is most likely either already snuggled in for the night or participating in whatever orgy air travel causes one to participate in. We are left to scramble over our half-eaten trays of food, retrieve our carry-on luggage and make for the exit. The movie rages on.
We are waiting for the airline to find a place to put us up for the night. Chris is wandering the terminal, looking for something to spend his money on. I spend my time enjoying the company of two lovely southern ladies, Kelley and Shai. Kelley is cute and nice and makes me wish I were more of a stud or at least not so dopey. Shai is nice but seems to be annoyed by everything we are experiencing. If only Chris was near, they could hold a bitch-a-thon.
For some reason the state of Tennessee is unable to provide lodgings for the victims of flight 360. We are shuttled across the state line into Kentucky, to a lovely accommodation that has the unfortunate distinction of trying to look like a medieval castle. The entire flight of one hundred plus passengers is delivered to this Shangri-La by two vans that hold eight people each. Letting the women and children go first, we arrive at the hotel three hours after we left the plane.
We are given money for room service, but room service stopped servicing two hours ago. Ten minutes in this joint and Chris is getting annoyed with the castle motif. We go to the diner that seems to be a part of the hotel and order enough food to feed a buffalo. What we do not spend of the airline money we give to the waitress as a tip. She is nice and we have taken pity on the fact that she has to serve people who come to a castle hotel on purpose.
A good night’s rest and all will be better in the morning. That’s what we tell ourselves anyway. God knows what else will happen to us. We are now a day behind on our itinerary, we have not even left American soil, and worse yet, we are in the South.
The next morning we lounge around the airport waiting for our flight to leave. We are being re-routed to Detroit, at which point we will grab another plane to London. This going up and down in airplanes has got to be bad for us physically. I can only imagine the change in pressure and altitude has formed some sort of air pocket in my brain or something even more horrible. Our boarding gate is A17, but Chris has chosen to sit at gate A15. He says it is providing him with a better summer view.
Chris shares that he feels like he is in the movie Groundhog Day. He says that he is like Bill Murray, living his day over and over, and that we will never actually get any closer to Europe than we are now.
“At least Bill gets the girl at the end of the movie,” he tells me. “What do I have? You!”
I tell him I understand his point completely, though part of me just wants to fold up in the corner and weep. I will admit, I am no Andie MacDowell, but I am pretty cute in my torn jeans and over-sized sweatshirt.
He then begins to spout off his anger at the coach area of airplanes. They are a cleverly disguised concentration camps in the air. He explains that if the Nazis had had patience, they would have used all of their money and workforce to build really cramped airplanes and then send their prisoners on really long flights. They would make sure there were at least three or four screaming babies on board and would keep screwing around with the headphones. They would then return them periodically to the ground for some stupid repairs, not letting them leave the aircraft and forcing them to eat Southwestern Steak Fillet or Herbed Chicken.
I am beginning to get a little concerned with his choice of subject matter and the line he treads so near to not being politically correct. Luckily, he offers a ray of hope. After some more thought he says that Oscar Schindler would have been an airline inspector who would say, that the airplanes were not functioning right and the passengers would be able to disembark every now and then. I can always trust in Chris to find a way to see a glass half full somewhere. I sit cross-legged on the floor, close my eyes and put my palms together. If there is a God, he will get us out of Tennessee.
We meet the girls again and I make it a point to annoy them with my wit and wisdom. Chris watches CNN and learns that the eight octopus tentacles on the ice, at a hockey game, represent the original number of games it took to win the Stanley Cup playoffs. He has also decided that the Bono version of Can’t Help Falling in Love is one of his favorite songs. After my discussion with the girls I decide that my accomplishments are insignificant compared to these facts he has acquired. We eventually board the plane to Detroit to continue our European adventure.
Our luggage is waiting for us in Detroit, which makes us happy, but we also feel as though we may be pushing our luck. As we prepare to leave Detroit, we become paranoid that our backpacks may not arrive in London. We convince the stewardess that they are within the carry-on size limit, which is accomplished by some eventual begging on my part. My bag is not actually pushing regulations too much, but the bag Chris drags on looks like we are transporting cadavers. Some pushing, rearranging and smashing eventually get the bags into their appropriate bins. We avoid any mishaps or airline catastrophes while flying in to and out of Michigan’s friendly skies. Our airplane cargo door decides to stay on. We are on our way to Europe.
Two hours into our seven-hour flight and I once again detest flying. Dinner has been served. I forgot what I asked for and looking at my meal offers no help as to what I am eating. Airplane food has never impressed me. I do not think they put enough effort into it. I would probably feel this way with any place that would make me eat food that requires the use of utensils in a space that does not even offer enough room to have an eye spasm. We wait for the in-flight movie to begin and I enjoy a free alcoholic beverage.
I make friends with the guy next to me. I feel it is the polite thing to do since our seats are so close together we are probably considered married by Amish standards. He does not seem like a lunatic and I feel it is wise to know the person I could later be using as a flotation device. His name is Greg and he is from Detroit. He is pretty much doing the same thing we are, but with less of a plan and hardly any money. He seems to have amused himself with these two facts, so I become happy for him.
He tells me that when he travels he always understands how good he really has it back home. I hope that is true. I am very unappreciative of what I have. I am not saying my life sucks, it’s just that I am bored with it all. I am five and a half miles above the ocean, flying to another country, and I have nothing waiting for me where I am going and nothing waiting for me where I left. I cannot figure out if I am a free spirit or a pathetic soul. Most likely, I am a bit of both.
Chris is getting frustrated because there is a man two rows ahead of him with an enormous head, which is blocking the movie screen. For a moment it is gone and he relaxes to enjoy the movie, but then gets twice as mad as the hugely proportioned cranium floats back into view. Apparently he is just pulling something out of the seat pocket in front of him. I think it is safe to say that Chris is enjoying the movie much less than I am.
Unable to see the movie, Chris decides to converse with me. He tells me how moving sidewalks are one of the greatest inventions of the twentieth century. He says they are miracles of modern man, making even the clumsiest people seem graceful. We had passed our free time in Detroit riding these contraptions. Chris enjoyed walking in place. He said it was good exercise. I was just standing on them to avoid any unsolicited movement.
Another hour goes by before he finally loses his ability to not bitch. He is mad at the space between the seats. There are five people sitting across the middle of the aircraft. We are lucky enough to be in the center seats, and due to my girth, I have to sit like I am sliding down a tube. Chris is finding it difficult to get out and go to the lavatory. He says it might be easier just to urinate in one’s seat. He holds his empty cup aloft, in the direction of the stewardess.
“Oh please,” he inquires, “Could I have some more to drink?”