Flying High

I don’t know how he does it. But I’m pretty sure he’s way happier than stiff smile Audrey on American Airlines (who suck more each time I fly). There’s something special in the air alright. Something especially crappy. And “Fly the friendly skies” must have been written by some copywriter with a snarky sense of irony.

I hate to fly. I’m terrified of catastrophic events claiming my life that has yet to reach its highly anticipated claim to great promise. I scare easily. I might also be a tish incontinent when faced with my mortality. Turbulence renders me a puddle, a frothy combination of palm sweat and tears. On my latest jaunt to Seattle the flight hit some serious turbulence. I’m talking so powerful it should be called turbolence. I was this close to firing up my CrapBerry to cry to Mac Daddy and cement to him my love for him and those boys of ours. I was a whimpering fool. The one lesson I took away from that jet stream gone wild trip is to wear Depends on the plane.

Besides the fright factor, there are many other reasons I detest flying. For starters, the people suck. You might recall the cast of characters from a flight I wrote about a while back.

There the inevitable cranky pants kids, teething babies with popping ears, headphones with the volume turned to 11, flight attendants who have been pushed to their infinite limit and beyond, people who wear lace up or worse, multi-buckled shoes, and are ill prepared at security, the woman in 11 C who tries to sell you Mary Kay concealer because you “look unrested,” the preacher who opens up his Bible and asks about your favorite passage, folks who ask where to find row 26, asshats whose bags are way bigger than the little box thing your carry on is supposed to fit into and take up all the overhead bin space, seatbelt extender wearers who take up part of your seat and the whole armrest, people who don’t share the arm rest, slovenly snackers, drunks, loud mouthed arrogant businessmen who hide their phallic insecurities behind a veil of pumped chest machismo, the same bastards who talk down to the flight attendants, a severe lack of snacks and meals that make me wish for a school cafeteria lunch, bad coffee, sketchy bathrooms with those sinks that don’t properly run water and make you touch everything, crumbs in the seat, completed crossword puzzles in the inflight magazine, the guy who is opposed to bathing, the kid kicking the seat behind you while his mom intermittently dozes and doesn’t make him stop, the testy passengers (yours truly included), all the people who put their bags at the front of the plane and traipse back to row 19, First Classers who snidely smile while sipping champagne (champagne!), the smell of warm cookies for First Classers only, the taunting curtain separating First Class as if it were VIP at Studio 54, the quack next to you who doesn’t clue into signals and keeps on and on and on about his golf swing while your face is planted in a book, those sentences you read 326 times before closing the book and pretending to fall asleep, the foul pillows and blankets that aren’t good enough for my dog’s crate, and the people who talk loudly on their cell phones until the flight attendant whacks them across the knuckles for the twelfth time to make them turn the dang thing off, and well, so much about flying just stinks.

I braced myself for a completely miserable romp in the air and a day of wiling away the hours, the oh so many hours, in an excruciatingly long layover. I had work to do, a 600 page book to read, a cookbook to write, music to tune into, Scrabble to play, and snacks to nosh. I would have made the Scouts proud.

Alas, all those distractions that had weighed me down were for naught.

From Seattle to Chicago I sat next to the most delightful gentleman. But let me back up.

I had caught a 5:40 AM shuttle to the airport and was anticipating a snooze on the flight. I was thankful for my aisle seat. Then I boarded the plane and saw a bedraggled row of seats where my tushie was supposed to rest. A mom and her teenage kids had sprawled out with Dr. Pepper cans and crinkling bags of Cheetos and Funyons. They looked nervous. I can relate to nerves driving me to eat garbage. What I can’t relate to are the yoga pants and parachute size underwear that were poking out of her waistband when she bet down to tuck her Sauconys into her carry on bag and the crumpled socks in her hand. I mean, who goes barefoot on a plane? She looked at me pleadingly and asked if I’d swap seats with her so she could sit with her kids. We have experienced such kindness from strangers on our many flights with Bird and Deal that I happily obliged. Then I realized I was stuck in the middle seat. Cue Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty. Well, it turns out I had a glorious chat with my new friend, and those many hours flew by!

After a painful delay with Carrie to listen to me whine keep me company, I finally boarded a flight bound for home. I was in a window seat, and being a person who hates to fly, I don’t feel a need to peek out the window to see how far I’m going to free fall. I hadn’t buckled in, anticipating a rare less-than-sardine-packed flight that would afford me the luxury of moving to a new seat with a view of nothing but the first class curtain. I peered over the seats and saw plenty of room to hide and perhaps finally get some shut eye. While I waited, the man and woman next to me started chatting. Somehow the topic immediately went to food, with the gentleman pulling out a hand scrawled list of Durham eateries. He asked for my input. I mentioned Rue Cler, our family favorite, and we were immediately smitten with each other. When the flight attendant saw me contorted into the window with my back crammed against the shade, she asked if we were traveling together and told me I could move. The couple so sweetly pleaded with me to stay, and I most happily told the flight that we were now traveling together. We talked of jam and Trader Joe’s and rhubarb and the perfect bread recipe. We talked about the nation’s education woes and school food and dreary Seattle weather. And so went a few more hours in the air. Once again, time flew when I needed it to. We hugged at the gate, and all I wanted to do was share a meal with these lovely people.

My new friends.

People who showed me that the skies are friendlier than I had ever thought.