Flying, Part 2

The other side of TSA; Remember "LA Story?"

Finally, the other side of the TSA procession-- freedom. We are allowed to drink water and wear belts and shoes. I can breathe again. I’m ready to dance a jig even though I won’t dance, don’t ask me. (Fred Astaire 1935ish.) My lyrics would be: I don’t dance because of chronic back pain. But that’s a different post and not as poetic.

By the time we arrive at the gate I’ve had my exercise for the day. For the week. I’m limited by my troublesome back to maybe 20 minutes of walking every few days. We skip the stores that sell pre-packaged food; the lines are too long and the food too gross. Besides, I wisely pre-ordered a food source on the Alaska website two days ago. (Alaska surprisingly had a Mediterranean meal that was CK friendly. Oh joy!)

As we head to our gate, we ogle the lines we pass and comment.

“Look at that Starbucks line,” I say as though I’m pointing out a rare species at the zoo.

“There are people waiting for a seat at that airport bar,” hubby says. “Nothing like throwing back a whiskey at 7am.

“Look, a line for the burger joint. So glad we’re post-line.”

“You’re forgetting one,” says hubby. “Boarding the plane.”

Sure enough, at the gate we shuffle onto yet another line. Dang. The flight attendant already called Group B for Bummed. He’s already onto Group D for “Didn’t pay attention.” I missed the announcement for MVPers to board. My one advantage in life. For a moment I pictured myself as that obnoxious person. The one who cuts the line and says, “Excuse me, MVPer here. You’re just the D people.”

There’s nothing like airline travel to remind folks of their stature in life.

Whenever I board a plane and squeeze past First Class, I’m reminded of a scene in LA Story starring Steve Martin. He’s a weatherman who wants to take a date to a fancy restaurant but must first prove his financials to the chef and Maitre’d to secure a reservation. After an appalling glance at his bank statement the restauranteurs ask him what he would order. Martin says he would like the duck to which the Maitre’d says in a French-ish accent, “You can’t afford ze duck.” This line has since become an inside joke between hubby and I since the movie’s release in 1991 and for some reason the three-times comedy rule doesn’t apply. As I pass the man sitting in First Class who earlier huffed, “Clear,” (Flying, Part 1) I tell myself, “You can’t afford ze big comfy seat.”

I’m no longer intrigued by the First-Class patrons, except for maybe that Hermes purse I catch a glimpse of. Instead, I’m reading seat numbers and letters. When there are two people flying together there’s always an instant let-down when that third seat is occupied even if the Flight Attendant had already announced four times that the flight is full.

And sure enough, there’s a dude with a mask sitting in the window seat in our row. The guy nods and I know he will be my buddy for the next 5 hours. It’s usually the teenagers who ignore the human connection. I pull out my needs for the next 5 hours: Energy Bar, Glasses, Lap Top, Book, Sanitary Wipes, Kleenex, Phone… And it somehow squeezes into the netted pocket.

We take off.

The flight attendant hands out our pre ordered food. Hubby sits in the aisle, me in the middle and new masked flight-friend Michael in the window seat. Yup. Already got his name. I want to ask him if he’s either immuno-compromised or a hypochondriac but we aren’t at that point in this airline relationship.

Michael preordered food too and as he takes his meal-in-a-box the flight attendant says to him, “Thank you for being a frequent flyer.” Huh? Why didn’t she thank me? I visited my sick dad five times last year and used Alaska Air for a wedding too. Maybe Michael is MVP Gold. Maybe he’s in the million miles club after all he did mention he flies a lot for work. I thought I saw the flight attendant give hubby and I the stink eye as she thanked Michael.

“Did she give us the stink eye for not being ultra supreme travelers?” I whisper to hubby.

He smirks and says, “No stink eye from Florence the Flight Attendant.” (Not really her name. Hubby likes alliterations.)

The rest of the flight was easy peasy. Landing is always a relief.

Why do airports have to be so stressful? (Seriously asking.)

Are you made to feel like you can’t afford ze duck when traveling?