Leavin' on a Jet Plane...

There was a time when I loved every detail of traveling: researching airfares, arriving at the airport, checking in, etc. Speaking of my plans made me feel a little glamourous, as if  "I'm flying to Paris and have a layover in Dubai", meant I actually had wings. The concept of changing time zones in a matter of hours, having a crew serving me delicious little vegetarian meals that I special ordered ahead of time. (Just for the record? Vegetarian does NOT mean that I do not want the dessert. I'm not on a diet. I just don't want animal). I actually kinda liked the airline food. It was cute, neatly squared away in respective compartments on the dollhouse size tray. The flight attendants (back then you were still allowed to call them "stewardesses") were still mostly women, shellacked in heavy hairspray so that not one tendril escaped, and make up a la Glamour Shots. (Of course, should the plane go down, the last thing you want is your hair cemented in place with flammable glue, but these were also still the days when people smoked inflight). Anyhow, the flight attendants looked sharp, and they had cool uniforms to seal the image of a sassy but lovely travel professional. The uniform of the Emirates Airlines particularly enamoured me. They have a really cute little cap with a quasi-belly dancer sheer scarf/veil!

For 3 minutes I know I considered going to flight attendant school because of the 31 flavors of chic in jet setting with multilingual colleagues and freedom to wear heavy eyeliner, but in the end I knew that I had serious issues just getting down the aisle without bonk bonk bonking each passenger in the face with my carry-on. (And really? I don't feel sorry for bonking First Class . They're already sucking down free wine by the time I make the Walk of Shame past them, past the little curtain that will seal their kind off from those of us in Coach, who apparently come from the Wrong Side Of The Tracks).  Well, that and the primitive part of my brain refuses to understand that a heavy chunk of metal will stay in the air on account of Bernoulli's principle, thrust, and all kinds of other physics that still seem like magic at take-off. 
So, I'm the passenger in 27E who, after eleventy jillion flights *still* attentively listens to the whole spiel about keeping in mind that the nearest exit may be behind me, my seat as a flotation device (although I dread the thought of clinging to life with my face buried in the cushion with the imprints of the 780 thousand butts that went before me), and to put on my oxygen mask before assisting others.  I admit, that a percentage of my attention to the flight attendants' safety routine is because people rudely ignore them, chattering and dozing. People, really?  Could you spare five minutes and pay attention so we don't all go ass over teakettle in an emergency?
I feel like I have to be the "good passenger" and watch, bright eyed, as they act out the schtik each time.  So what if I'm a dork?  I'll be the dork who is the first one out of any 717,737,47,67,77, twin prop, MD80, MD90, A320...
(Here might be the appropriate place to mention that I was at JFK airport in New York on July 17th, 1996, when TWA flight 800 bound for Paris crashed into the ocean.  My flight, also bound for Paris, was several hours later on Tower Air).
Anyhow, it seems the golden age of travel is over.  No more vegetarian souffle, carefully quarantined from the peas' section, which is lovingly divided from the warm roll with butter.  Flight attandents grudglingly come if you press the little call light, but with a chip on their shoulder.  Like, what?  They've got somewhere to be?  You're going to make them late for their kid's recital?  Gone are the powder puffs and lip gloss and proper nylons, in exchange for scrunchies and girdles - and I daresay I've seen a flight attendant or two completely forego the grooming at her hotel, only to start slathering on moisturizer in the galley.  Couth, people.  Couth! 
Naturally, with increased security, inconveniences arise.  But I have yet to get a system down for getting through the shoe removal/jacket removal/laptop removal/cell phone removal without getting tagged.  Everytime, I think this is the flight I'm going to make it through without a glitch, and everytime I'm wrong.  I step through the trellis looking thing and alarms go off and I'm embarrassed.  Last time, it was a wire bra, which I had to take off.  And hey - I'm fine with that.  I say that if it keeps the plane up in the sky from point A to Point B, then let these people do their job and get over yourself.  After so many asses, it's just information overload anyhow.  Yours is nothing special, so get patted down and let us board.
 Once the TSA asked me to open my carry-on and tell them if there was anything in there that shouldn't be.  My heart stopped and my brain raced.  Did they know something I didn't?  What the hell did they see on the X-Ray? I was freaking a tiny bit, which probably made me look even more suspicious.  TSA Guy asked if there was anything in between the lining of the carry-on.  He rummaged and poked and couldn't find what they thought they saw so they put it through again.  Just as I was having visions of being led to a cellar and being given a cavity check a la Midnight Express, they let me go.
IMAGE: BILLY GETS BUSTED IN MIDNIGHT EXPRESS:



Necessarily, there is very little tolerance now of bad behavior.  One time, at the counter at Continental Airlines, I became very irritated because they would not accept my ticket to South America ...something about advance reservations...blah blah...I actually very angrily said, "I'm about TO GO POSTAL!"   Continental corrected their mistake and within an hour I was in the clouds.  Can you imagine if I said that in an airport today?  Let's just say that blaze orange isn't my color.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could return to the good old days, when getting there was part of the fun?!  I might take over my own travel flying.  Sure, I have to be pilot, passenger AND stewardess, but for once I get to fly in First Class.
IMAGE: Me and a Cessna, which I flew for all of 20 minutes before deciding to hand the controls back to the instructor.