Man Learns to Fly

Planning. Packing. Re-packing. Making lists. Trying on clothing, refolding my underwear,  solving minor technical problems, checking the euro vs. dollar, hoping for the best, considering what will happen if they…if…if…,which is a total and complete waste of time and increases the possibility that fantasy will overtake the reality of my life for the 15 hours that I spend in the air between Albuquerque and Paris.

Goddamn airline has already “notified” me of a schedule change on the flight back. In December. Three months away. They are preparing me for trouble in the future.

Early this morning there was an email waiting in my inbox from American Airlines indicating that, on my return trip, on December 31, 2012, instead of having three well-planned and restful hours in Dallas I’ll be spending four hours between flights. Not bad. Not devastating. Four hours. That’s do-able, but I’m already imagining the wait. Four seems a lot longer than three after flying internationally, uncomfortable in crummy seats, considering the real possibility that I could die in a flaming planecrash at any moment, smelling the other passengers, eating bowel-clogging food with plastic utensils, watching family-friendly movies that horrify and disgust me, trying not to breath in the global germs that are circulating through the ineffective ventilation system. Four hours is an eternity of fatigue, unreadable books, rundown batteries, tepid water, noisy children, bad lighting and dirty restrooms.

In the real world of air travel, a four hour layover is nothing. Actually, I’ve had it pretty easy. Luggage has only been lost once and that was on a return trip from Detroit to San Francisco, so, no problem; I wasn’t alone in a foreign country without clothes or toiletries. I was stuck in a plane for a couple of hours in Washington, D.C., but we eventually took off and made it to Milan. Eventually, with no help, answers or amenities from the flight crew.

Busted with a knife on the way to Paris a few years back. Fined $250 and threatened with imprisonment. No big.

Canceled flight at O’Hare. And another in Houston. One more in Phoenix. Rome, too. Denver. Probably a few I’ve forgotten.

Turbulence, panic disorders, seat-kicking kids, nasty, burned-out flight attendants but, so far, no sewage spills, botulism, near misses or snakes on the plane.

Once, in Puerto Rico, while waiting for a badly delayed flight to Virgin Gorda, I argued with a bonehead security agent about his work ethic. That almost got nasty. All of the agents were gathered together, ignoring the long lines of travelers, drinking sodas and loudly yukking it up in that uncomfortable, guilty way government workers have when they know they are goofing off but aren’t about to weaken and actually work. I was waiting for someone to come and clear me through the gate. Eventually, a sweaty, mean-looking little prick sauntered over and barked, “Empty your pockets, take off your belt and shoes.”

My response?

“What the fuck are you jagoffs doing? Bunch of lazy bullshitters is what you are. I hope you don’t get paid for this?”

Nice, huh? It had been a long day.

The clown snapped to attention, said, “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that,” and reached for me, shouting to his fat, do-nothing buddy to come over and help.

At that moment the pilot of our tiny, substitute plane slipped between us, took my bag and waved me through. I didn’t hesitate, just followed him, climbed aboard and while we were banking after taking off I saw the dimwit on the ground, hands on hips, glaring upwards at our aircraft. We were probably too high for him to see me flip him off.

I’ve been lucky and travel, for me, has been manageable. I think I’ve dealt with the inevitable difficulties fairly well.

I expect to fly from Albuquerque at noon on Sunday, through Dallas, and land at Charles De Gaulle airport sometime around 9:30 a.m. next morning, Monday, October 1. That’s the agreement, subject to change, thus far, with American Airlines. It’s all I can expect, and I may be overreaching. They, the airline, are completely in charge. They can change times, gates, flights, aircraft. They can ignore me, insult me, accuse me, arrest me. There are no guarantees. I’ve got my travel clothes picked out. These are the same clothes that I’d wear if I were going to prison for a long time. Loose fitting, older, disposable, no belt, slip-on shoes. There are plenty of things that can happen that are out of my control. All I have to do is show up two hours ahead of takeoff, weaponless, with my passport in hand.

I’ve figured out that when traveling internationally, in our current overweening, jittery, paranoid environment, attitude is very important.

My wife, SG, approaches the ticket counter, addresses the staff in a friendly manner, asks for nothing, and gets upgraded to Business Class.

I draw near the desk and the ticket agents take a step back, sniff my luggage, and have trouble finding my reservation.

I repeat to myself, “Keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet, shut up, shut up.”

Patience. Deep breathing. Evolve for Christsake.

Sunday is departure. December’s return is a long way off, schedules change, flights are cancelled, weather happens and angry security agents are waiting.

I know it was immature and useless but it felt really good to give the airborne finger to that perspiring, corrupt, officious dimbulb in Puerto Rico.