Airline Travel

Is it just me or do pilots look younger these days? Younger pilots and older flight attendants. Now not all employees of the airlines fit the descriptions in this account, just the ones I've seen lately. I try my best not to fly anymore. To me it is the most absurdly uncomfortable method of travel available to the public today. Yes, the plane is a very fast mode of transportation, provided it is in the air. How many times have you gotten to the airport two hours early for your security check-in procedures only to find out that the counter folks weren't quite awake yet, the computers used to scan your passports were not functioning, the plane you were scheduled to leave on is showing a late arrival, the new crew is stuck at a train crossing, and weather is causing delays where you are going. Let's see now I'm going to Houston, a five hour drive in my car. Two hours pre-flight, one hour waiting on plane, crew, and security personnel, one hour flight time, and one hour in the landing queue, taxi to the terminal, deplane, and baggage claim - Total time five hours. Plus in addition to my ticket price, I get to pay all kinds of taxes (called fees), a portion of the fuel, Union dues, tips for baggage handling, and fifty dollars for snacks in the airport. Now, you tell me am I really gaining any time? I definitely not saving any money.

Then after being stripped of all your dignity and personal belongings by the terribly fair and objective security personnel, you are ranked by your ticket status and herded like cattle into a crowding shoot. All first class passengers are escorted ahead of the rest of us to their large leather recliners two abreast and served drinks before the huddled masses can enter the Jetway - unless of course you are carrying several screaming kids two strollers, and fourteen carry-on bags, or you are so severely incapacitated you probably shouldn't be flying anyway. Then it's time for the rest of us, the remaining one hundred and six less than privileged individuals occupying rows eleven through twenty (three abreast) to make the march of shame. Strolling past the upturned noses and wine glasses of the Rap stars, athletes, Congressmen, and Lotto winners we pass the little curtain into the bowels of the metal tube. I don't know why airlines don't just outlaw carry-ons altogether. None of them seem to fit in the overhead bin, or the space below the seat in front of you. I weigh 235 lbs. (plus or minus ten depending on my diet schedule) and I try and get an aisle seat if at all possible, that way my shoulders only overlap my seat partner on one side. My other shoulder is exposed to the traveller boarding behind me with the roll away cot sized bag, and later the two thousand pound beverage cart. In the rush to get out of the way of the other passengers, I discover I've seated myself on my seat belt. Now I have to try and dig the ends out while holding myself suspended in a half squat. Once you are seated, you are presented with a mass of safety information by video, or over a PA system that is totally unintelligible. Do you really think that anyone on the plane will remember what was said in the case of an emergency? The instructions are acted out by the flight attendants who don't really seem happy to see you. In fact, I don't care what time of day or night you travel, they all seem to have just gotten out of bed with no time to spare before rushing to the airport sans make-up. For the losers in coach, we are warned under penalties enforced by the First Class flight attendant, Ms Rhonda, not to attempt to use the restroom in the First Class cabin. Now, here goes my math again. First Class - twenty people with easy access to the aisle to use one large restroom. Coach - one hundred and six people who can barely breath because they are stacked together like matches to use two restrooms the size of small broom closets (53 per restroom - plus the overflow from First Class)(They can go where ever they want). And, this is further complicated by the beverage cart which at any given moment is blocking off at least half of Coach. Most flights only serve drinks and some tiny nosh that wouldn't satisfy a mound of red ants. Serving any liquid on flights is absurd when consider the restroom availability. Because this is a family post, I will not describe what it's like trying to cram two hundred and thirty pounds into one of those water closets with the Chinese puzzle doors. The airlines should pass out vouchers for cleaning services, or small waterproof ponchos for all aisle passengers. Without fail, the flight attendant on my end of the cart will lean toward the passengers seated in the seats across the aisle while at the same time popping the top on a soda agitated during take off thus spraying me with a Mt. St. Helen sized geyser of Diet Coke. I then sit for the remainder of the flight looking at the quarter sized brown spots on my new aqua fishing shirt, wondering how long I can hold my water, and feeling my legs numb to the point of being useless stumps. Now I ask you, "Why do we fly again?"

Braving Mexico

We live just about seven miles as the crow flies from Mexico. However, when we talk about venturing to the interior, we always get cautions from well meaning folks telling us to be careful. The drug lords along the border are shooting it out with the Mexican Police on a regular basis. We however, were several hundred miles from the border. The Yucatan peninsula is on the lower eastern quadrant of Mexico between the Gulf of Campeche, and the Caribbean Sea. We flew into Cancun, then rented a car and drove for over an hour down Mexico highway 307 to the lazy little village of Akumal.
Being an old law dog, I always try and locate the local Police Headquarters. I just thought I would show you the Akumal Police Station. They are not acquainted with crime as we know it in these parts. The locals are bad about stealing your money, but its all done quite legally.
Every morning I tried to work some time into my rigorous schedule to do a little writing. I did not have a word processor, so I had to do it the old fashioned way with a pen and notebook. To make it harder, I did it all with my left hand. I am going to invest in a better camera. The one I am currently using makes me look fat. In case you are wondering, I did change into less formal attire after I completed my writing session every day.

Age is not a particularly interesting subject. Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough. - Groucho Marx

Pre-Flight Checklist

It's Sunday, and while we get ready to go to the church house we are mentally making preparations for tomorrow's departure for Akumal, MX. For those of you who pray, we would ask you to remember us and ask for journey's mercies. I know many good pilots and have travelled the skies extensively through the years, but I never turn down help from on high. I am changing the procedure this time around. Many of you like to comment when you read the post, so I'm turning off the setting that links to my e-mail. Now you should be able to comment away without overloading my inbox. I am going to try and get some new material while I'm sitting on the beach. I hope you all have a wonderful week.

Never be afraid to laugh at yourself, after all, you could be missing out on the joke of the century. - Dame Edna Everage

OBSERVATIONS FROM 30,000 FT.

I observed from a plane, clouds below
like miles and miles of drifted snow.
A polar icecap broken by lakes.

In the distance I could see
giant forms,
icebergs rising from the sea,
geysers billowing steam.

They are soft, I thought,
but feared descent.
These clouds looked hard,
permanent.

Traveling Blues

I know we are several months clear of the Christmas season, but this story is about travelling in general. My sister, who is mentioned herein, is visiting with me as I write. I spent most of the first part of the week cleaning the house so the maid could come. My wife works part time and she left me instructions on how to prepare the house for the maid. We didn't want the maid to think we lived in a dirty house. I spruced up everything but my office. We don't normally have a maid, and the first thing she looked at when she got here was my office. She turned to me and said, "Do you want me to start in here?" I steered her toward the kitchen so she wouldn't leave right away. When she left, I told her we would tackle the office next time.

THE PRESENT


“Come on girls. Get you stuff loaded. I wanted to be on the road by 5:00 and it’s already 6:30.”
“Dad, why do we have to leave so early?”
“Because it’s a long drive and I want to make it before tonight.”
“Can we take our pillows?”
“You’ve got everything else in the house, why not? I just hope the tires don’t pop.”
It was our annual Christmas trip from Texas to Mississippi. Nobody from Mississippi travels, so if you leave the state, you are the one who must travel back for a visit. Many years ago my father started moving us around. We lived long distances from the Magnolia State, but we made at least one pilgrimage a year back to the old home place.

When I was a child, prior to our becoming the family gypsies, we rarely traveled more than forty miles in one day. To travel that distance in Mississippi one had to pack a bag for an overnight stay. As an adult, I chose to carry on the gypsy tradition that my dad started. I bought a custom van with four captain’s chairs, rear radio, TV, VCR, and a seat that made into a bed. I knew that we would be traveling. My relatives would often ask, “Why’d Y’all leave?” They never considered that life in another place could be any better than it was in Mississippi. I sometimes envied their simple, uncluttered lives. I never really answered their question.
With the van loaded with traveling gear, and gifts for the family, we set out on our eastward journey. During the week prior to our leaving, I had developed a dry hacking cough. It was a nuisance, but not something that would stop our trip.
Our first obstacle was to make it safely out of Houston. No racing driver ever needed more skill. Driving a full sized Chevy Van at 70 plus miles per hour in six lanes of traffic bounded by concrete barriers was a test for even the most seasoned driver. My stress level was at a peak. Several times I yelled, “Prepare my bazooka!” as other drivers entered my personal driving space. My girls, who once laughed at my antics, just rolled their eyes and gave me that “oh please dad” look.
After we cleared the sprawl of the megaplex and crossed into the Bayou State, I settled down and put my mind on cruise control for the long quiet stretches of highway through the swampland of south Louisiana. I recalled the trips that we made as children with my father at the wheel of our big Buick. He was less animated than I, but not one to be trifled with. My sister and I often fought it out in the back seat as we traveled, but not so loud as to disturb dad. While in my driving dream state, I also remembered the day long walks through the woods with my grandfather as he searched for the perfect Christmas tree. If he couldn’t find a tree with the proper shape, he created it. He cut limbs off of other trees and strategically placed them in holes he drilled in the trunk of the one he had selected. The tree was then trimmed with bubbling tube lights, big multi-colored strings of bulbs, candy canes, tinsel, metallic ornaments, and silver icicles. The house was full of delicious smells. There were apples, oranges, Brazil nuts, Hazel nuts, and colorful hard candies. The old side board was loaded with fruit cake, German chocolate cake, coconut cake, and pecan pie. The best place to visit with my grandmother was in the kitchen. Christmas was a magical time.
Our final destination on this trip was my sister’s house. Since my grandparents died, we met there. She was the only one of my siblings who still lived in Mississippi. The rest of us were continuing the gypsy tradition. We broke our trip up in segments with short coffee stops at the homes of a few old college buddies who had settled in south Louisiana. Frequent stops are a given when traveling with girls.
As the sun descended behind the van, we passed the Mississippi welcome center, and drove into the unchanging time warp of the “state lost in time”. The tall pine trees shaded everything with their green shadows even in the winter months. We soon arrived at the winding driveway to my sister’s house. She had outdone herself again. Tradition is important to those who choose to remain in the slower paced world of the Deep South. Her house was filled with colorful markers of the season, the big Christmas tree, a Christmas card display, nativity scenes, wreaths, and a side board filled with culinary delights. It was the eve of the big day, and everyone joined in for food and fellowship.
I, however, was out of gas. I excused myself and went to bed early. The cough was unrelenting. I could hear the others talking and laughing deep into the night as I tried to get to sleep. I awoke to the smells of coffee, and breakfast cooking. Christmas morning – the kids were up early. My brow was hot. My head pounded and spun when I tried to lift it from the pillow. I felt like sand had been poured into my eye sockets during the night. My appetite was gone – possibly the clearest indicator that my condition was worsening. I heard the gift wrap tearing, followed by squeals of delight, as the kids opened their presents. I lay perfectly still not wanting to move. Finally, after everyone else had finished, I stumbled down the hall and into the den to open my presents. I wanted to die. I acknowledged with gratitude the gift givers, but quietly leaned over and told my wife to load the van. If I was going meet my maker, I wanted to do so from my own bed. The girls were understandably disappointed when their mother told them we were leaving. They hated these long trips, and we had just arrived.
. I labored to put on enough clothing to keep from being an embarrassment to them when we made our travel stops. I pushed the button at the back of the van that lowered the rear seat into a bed. I threw in two pillows and a blanket, and gave my wife the “Forward Ho!” with my last ounce of energy. She drove through the quiet little downtown and onto the interstate highway nosing the big van into the westbound lane. It was Christmas morning and traffic was light. I shivered underneath my blanket as chills highlighted every hair follicle on my body. The aft seat was right above the rear axle and after we crossed into Louisiana my pounding head was buffeted with the steady “Plop – Plop” of the tires as they rolled over the oversized expansion joints in the highway. Even when you’re feeling good, a road trip on a Louisiana interstate is rougher than a Conestoga wagon rumbling down the Santa Fe Trail. This trip seemed to last for ever.
I spent several days recovering after I got home. As soon as I was able to sit up and take nourishment, the telephone started to ring. Call after call came in commenting on my present to family and friends. They referred to it as the gift that never stopped giving. The dry hacking cough that punctuated their conversation gave away their meaning. I had infected almost the entire population of south Louisiana and Mississippi with the flu.
Future invitations to family gatherings were always made by telephone, shortly before the event took place, and always included a question as to whether or not I had a cough or any other symptoms of illness.