Nasty words are used to describe plane travel for many of us. I refer to the ordinary traveler that the airlines may refer to as Economy and Basic, those seats in the Main Cabin. If you were taught by loving parents that you are special, America’s airlines will bring you down to earth with a thud. You are nothing!
And as you near boarding, the agent intones “those with special needs, priority this or that” until you are finally admitted to the fuselage chamber where all manner of humanity squeezes, prods and stuff themselves and their belongings into none-to-clean tight spaces. To survive these indignities requires stamina, patience, tolerance, and a readiness to be intimate with strangers. And increasingly, you may be required to share your row with a two or four-legged pig as all manner of living things legitimate or not come on board as therapy creatures. Of course, you have an advantage if you have taken on the NYC subway during rush hour. Although in that circumstance you can detrain at the next stop to recharge or decontaminate, whereas in air travel deplaning at 35,000 feet is frowned upon.
Such were my musings at Atlanta Hartsfield Airport recently when I had a long layover before the last leg of my flight home. Claiming a blue seat in the lounge in front of the floor to ceiling windows facing the tarmac, I tried to become small and isolate myself from the din behind me. It was a hot day with a heat haze conferring a mild distortion to the scene before me. There was a lot of activity. Planes were backing up or docking; beauties in flight, awkward and dependent on the ground.
There came a lull in the outside activity when all of a sudden a large erect suitcase appeared in the right frame like a dark ship sailing on a calm black sea. Atop the case, red and white tags waved unfurled like the proud rigs of a Chinese junk. The metal zipper of the bag flashed creating a strobing light. A breeze must have caught the case for it began to speed up as it neared Gate 21 where a plane is parked. “Whee, I’m free,” it seemed to say.
I couldn’t help but smile. Glancing a few seats to my left, I caught the eye of a young woman who smiled back at me as we indulged in the micro-drama. Turning back to look outside, we saw a large overweight baggage handler in a yellow and green vest lumbering into view. He looked much like a dad retrieving an errant toddler in a superstore. It took quite a bit of labor on his part, but the handler eventually gained on the suitcase. He scooped it up in a rough sweeping embrace and exited out of view. I sat back in my seat, realizing with dismay that I had rooted for the suitcase as if it were a person fleeing from harm. Without a thought of its owner, I wanted it to escape on a flight to Kauai or some such locale rather loaded back at Gate 19 scheduled to Des Moines.
I fear the wait to re-enter airline purgatory for 2 ½ hours more of confinement had distorted my perspective. So I went back to musing pondering how many more miles before I become a Silver Medallion and can qualify for two more inches of legroom.
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