You’ve heard this message before, probably enough times to recite it without hesitation: “To help us get under way as quickly as possible, please put your bags in the overhead lockers and place anything small under the seat in front of you. Once your luggage if safely stowed, relax and enjoy your flight.”
Does anyone actually enjoy air travel? The answer is possibly “yes” if you travel in business class, definitely “yes” if you’re in first class. But for the rest of us, probably not so much.
I’m writing this week’s column on a British Airways flight from London’s Heathrow Airport to Chicago’s O’Hare. To be fair, I already feel slightly ahead of the game. On the outward journey I was squished into the worst seat on the plane, back row middle, non-reclining because it backed onto the toilet. Even worse, it was a night flight so for most of the journey I felt like I was trapped in an MRI, but with less opportunity for movement.
This time we are taking off at 10.30 a.m. so it will be 1.30 p.m. central time when we land, a mere seven hours and 40 minutes later. Day flights are much more pleasant as you can look out of the window until the stewards tell you to pull down the shade, which I can never understand. Here in my aisle seat, I can sneakily push my feet into the wild open space beside me as long as I watch out for a passing cart or stray child.
Mercifully today’s security line was quick and I didn’t have to remove my shoes. The bad news is I did have to pass through the full body scanner. As I raised my arms above my head I wondered if they’d be sending a report to my doctor.
Over the years I have learned what not to carry in my hand luggage. No salad servers for example. This may sound odd, but on a visit to see a friend in France several years ago, I made the mistake of bringing a very expensive set of salad servers as a gift. I can only assume the TSA thought I might toss the pilot out of the window in an attempt to hijack the plane because they confiscated the fork, leaving me to present my friend with a padded box containing a spoon with an empty fork-shaped space beside it.
I’ve been in my seat for 27 minutes now and we still haven’t moved. I’ve had to squish my paper wrapped pillow and handkerchief sized blanket into the pocket in front of me because if I leaned against them my head will nearly touch the TV screen. My seat, which felt almost spacious 27 minutes ago, is closing in by the minute.
Time to check out my High Life magazine, which would have made for interesting reading had I not read the entire thing cover to cover on the way out. I miss the old days of Sky Mall, when you could wonder how you had lived without a virtual reality portable refrigerator with monogrammed velvet lining.
Time for the safety briefing. Well-known British actors and celebrity chef Gordon Ramsey tell us politely how to do up our seat belts and shake hands with each other should the oxygen masks fall. Smile sweetly while adopting the brace position, which is completely doable when there are only six seats on the entire plane, as always seems to be the case in the videos.
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We’re off! I’m already looking forward to the meal service if only to relieve the boredom. The amount of food offered is marginally less than the average second grader’s lunch, always served with a side of turbulence. I swear three pings on the call system is a sign from the chief steward to the pilot to wobble the plane as much as he can while coffee is being poured. I had this fact confirmed to me by my stewardess, Zoe, who told me there was a spy-hole just above my seat for just such a purpose.
As I stand up to let the lady next to me out to use the bathroom (middle seat, I feel your pain) I’m asked by another passenger if he can borrow my pen so he can fill out his customs form. I’m never really sure why we have those. Who would admit to bringing in insects, snails, dirt or cell cultures, even if they had them? (Sorry, if you can’t buy them duty free, I’m not interested.)
We’ve been flying a while now so it’s time to check the on-screen map. Reckoning we must be above New York by now, I’m somewhat dismayed to see we are still over the Atlantic, near the Charlie Gibbs Fracture Zone. I have no clue what on earth that is, but since my name is not Charlie Gibbs I assume my limbs are safe for now.
What proof do we have that these maps are even accurate? We could be flying over South Africa, for all I know. The time to destination is five hours 11 minutes, the outside temperature -46.0 c and altitude 9,753m. I’m all for collecting useless information, but if I was told we were floating above Ogden Avenue at an altitude of six inches I’d probably believe that too.
I decide to watch a movie. Traveler’s Tip: If you know you are flying, do not go to any movies you want to see for three months prior to your trip or you’ll have nothing to watch on your flight except “Raja the Great” or Yul Brynner in “The King and I.” Deciding to listen to some calming music instead, my mind begins to wander, although not along the aisle because there’s no room for it with people queuing for the bathroom and carts filled with every type of tiny soda can known to man apart from the one I want. I think about the questions my friends back in Naperville are bound to ask me.
“What do the British think about President Trump?” and “What’s happening with Brexit?” In case you’re wondering that too, here are my answers. Oddly enough, the rest of the world doesn’t revolve around any American president so the subject never came up. As for Brexit, the cord will be cut in March 2019 but until then no one seems to have a clue how the highly complicated divorce will pan out other than England will get to keep all her umbrellas and Italy will get all the spaghetti.
Four hours in and I’m delighted to report my right foot has gone to sleep. I say this because it’s the only part of my body that can ever sleep on a plane.
Finally, we begin our descent. I know this because the captain tells all of us in cattle class to stow our tray tables and put our seats back into an upright position, while those in first class have time for one last foot massage before being individually carried out of the plane on feather beds.
