Do you hate travelling by airplane?
It seems like I can never be prepared enough. Among the strangers flying with us on Saturday was a toddler screaming worse than a demoralized Vikings fan following another playoff collapse.
The father paced the aisle trying to comfort the noise polluter while I covered my sound portals with earmuffs I hadn’t intended to use until the airplane had crossed the Iowa border and neared MSP airport. Dad apparently had no plugs to insert into the little redhead’s mouth.
Why hadn’t I packed a few baby pacifiers covered in melatonin?
While Red rested his screaming head against dad’s chest, some passengers sighed with maternal empathy and delight.
I gritted my teeth and pulled out my hair!
If the GOP can have a Kiddie Table Debate, why can’t the airlines have a Kiddie Plane?
When the volatile youngster wasn’t reaching historic decibel levels, those of us seated in the middle and back rows of the aircraft were trying to discern garbled communications from a flight attendant on the speaker system.
Completely inaudible.
For all we knew, the flight attendant might have been announcing the airplane was about to nosedive into the Atlantic Ocean. Even more interesting, perhaps crashing because of mysterious forces emanating from the Bermuda Triangle.
Those of us in the middle and back rows were unable to understand multiple announcements. We were oblivious as we flew through the skies partially fortified by free soft drinks while salivating at photos of expensive food items for sale. Why hadn’t I packed the homemade peanut brittle left over from Christmas?
A last minute change in itinerary had my wife and I flying over Caribbean waters at an earlier time than originally scheduled last Saturday. Before departing from a West Indies resort, I telephoned the airline to express concern about having only 80 minutes to go through U.S. Customs and change planes in an East Coast city before flying to Minneapolis.
A nice agent named Mark (poor fellow, he had no last name) informed me 80 minutes was within the legal limit airlines must allow for passengers to switch planes. I might have told him these fast turnarounds are best suited for track teams—especially sprinters and marathoners.
I hate running and fantasized about riding a golf cart with a V8 engine to propel us around the airport, absolutely convinced our departure gate would be located a county or two away from where we checked into Customs. Mark, however, had another idea.
He suggested taking a flight from the West Indies that left two hours earlier than we were scheduled. And at no additional cost, and putting us into our changeover city three hours before the connecting flight to Minneapolis.
I gave Mark the go ahead to switch our flight. He put me on hold. This took awhile. I showered and shaved.
He came back on the line when I was reaching for my nail clippers.
It was interesting that the earlier flight time was actually the time we had signed on for back in June when buying our tickets. In October had come word we had to take the later flight out of the West Indies that would have left us in dash-for-the-gate mode to catch our plane to Minneapolis.
What happened to make the good flight reappear?
No clue. The nice man didn’t say.
At an airport in the West Indies we were greeted by an enterprising young man in his late teens or early 20s. This unidentified fellow informed us the lines to check our luggage were becoming lengthy and suggested my wife and I go in separate directions. One of us should claim a place in line while the other used a kiosk to print boarding passes.
After this advice, he looked at my hands—hoping to see currency soon to be in his pocket.
We stared at each other.
I told him all I had in my wallet were large bills. “I can make change,” he said.
He did.
At the airport we had TSA Pre-Check status. However, I removed my shoes, belt, wedding ring, wallet, jacket and every scrap of paper I had collected since New Year’s Day (2000). Be grateful. Perhaps in a regular security check line I might have stripped down to my boxers.
By now you are wondering why I keep referring to the West Indies, rather than identifying the country where we vacationed. The reason is I don’t want to piss off you and other readers. Never mind that we enjoyed eight days where the temperature was about 90 degrees warmer than Minnesota. You don’t want to hear about the refreshing breezes, and the perfect days and nights. Who cares about the postcard gorgeous beach, multiple swimming pools, and delicious seafood?
You have no interest in paradise, right? Forget all that stuff referenced above.
Just know this: pack baby pacifiers on your next plane trip.
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