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| The 30,000 ft. View |
Flying.
I love it.
I love everything about it.
Now, don't get me wrong - I don't love everything that comes before the actual flying; nor am I particularly fond of all that comes after the flying. That whole "waiting for your luggage" business at the airport? Yeah, I'm not a fan. Removing all of your clothes, shoes, and that whole "do-I-or-don't-I-put-all-my-crap-in-a-Ziploc-bag?" dance-slash-guessing game at the beginning of the security line? Hate that game. Hate. It. But once I actually get on the plane, find my seat, buckle my seat belt and lean back for the duration? Oh, I love that part.
Over the years, I've developed a certain set of "rituals" when it comes to flying. They include, but are not limited to, the need to sit in a window seat if the flight is less than 4 hours, but in the aisle if it's any longer than that (bathroom breaks and my express desire to NOT need to get to know my row mates intimately as I try to squeeze my way past them with my ass effectively in their throats - I'm not interested in getting to know anyone that well). Also, the ONLY airlines on which I will actually eat the food are Royal Jordanian (they come around with a buffet cart in Business Class, seriously - freshly cooked dinner, it's pretty amazing), South African Airlines and maybe - depending on the menu - Lufthansa and Singapore Airlines. In most other cases, I pack a lunch, grab a McDonald's at the airport (a ritual that is firmly predicated on the belief that no calories consumed while traveling can be counted... something to do with gravity... I don't know, I'm still perfecting the theory, but I'm CERTAIN of its accuracy. Of course, the several pounds of flesh that tend to grow around my waistline after a particularly frequent traveling stint will, one day, prove me entirely false, but until then...), or a bag of trail mix and call it a day. I've also perfected the art of the "carry-on" - a few tips: you know all those books you're sure you're going to have time to read? Yeah, you're not going to read them on this flight, so spare your neck and shoulders the pain and weight, and pack a magazine or buy a Kindle or other e-reader. Trust me. Also, your computer and all your work papers that you're certain you will make time to review and the presentation you're going to edit on your laptop? Not happening. Not today. Unless you're one of those uber-annoying productive types who can't just chill the fuck out for one second to enjoy the in-flight movie; in which case, I can't help you and I don't relate to you, but good luck with all that. And speaking of the in-flight movie, what IS it with all the crying on planes? I read something somewhere about the altitude wreaking some sort of havoc on our emotions, but seriously, I think my system needs some tweaking because crying - hysterically, I might add - at the end of "Bridesmaids" is a little much. Oh, and always, ALWAYS bring a pair of crappy socks you don't want or a pair of extra hotel slippers with you to wear to the bathroom - I don't even want to think about what gets on those floors and I definitely don't want anything I will take with me off the plane to touch whatever grossness lies beneath. So, socks and/or slippers go on during the bathroom trips and are dispensed of upon disembarkation. You're welcome.
Anyway, the point being that I don't remember a time when I didn't fly. By all accounts, I was flying before I was a self-aware human being. My parents tell the story of how I flew to Cairo as a newborn baby, all dressed up and ready to meet my hyper-excited grandparents, who apparently gained access to the plane and literally greeted me upon landing. So, I've been flying for a long time. But in all the years of travel, there are a few flights that I consider to be particularly noteworthy, for one reason or another. On a recent flight, I found myself reminiscing and recounting to myself the flights that have stayed with me.
DOWN UNDER
One flight that stands out for me is the first time I went to Australia with my family. I think I may have been 9 or 10 years old. So, here's the thing: for some reason, I really, really wanted to be a flight attendant when I was a kid. I was mesmerized by flight attendants. Not sure why, but there you have it. So, for this VERY long flight (if I recall, it was a 28-hour flight from Cairo with a stop in Singapore, but I could be making that part up), I INSISTED that I needed to wear a suit. Dead serious. I made my parents buy me a turquoise blue skirt and blazer that I paired with a pink button down shirt and heels (or what I, a 10 year old, would have considered heels - I'm certain my mother did not let me wear actual heels at that age).
We were flying Qantas Airlines and I read through the Qantas information leaflet in excruciating detail, making my mother give me all the cream she had on her because (a) we were still allowed to take creams with us onboard airplanes back in the day, and (b) because the leaflet said that "your skin will get dry from the flight and you must be sure to keep it moisturized." Well, I wanted to be a professional, you know, so I took this shit very literally. I remember covering myself in cream and following all the instructions and suggestions word for word. I also think, and again I could be totally dreaming this up, that I helped the flight attendants deliver the dinner service on board. I may have attempted to do this and been yelled at and asked to "please get back to your seat immediately," but I can almost swear that I actually did it and that no one yelled at me. I also think I remember my sister, who despite only being 7 or 8 years old at the time, dramatically rolling her eyes at me for being entirely ridiculous and over-the-top. This would not be the first nor the last time my sister reacted this way to me.
At any rate, the flight was a memorable one; Australia was fascinating to me, and I think I may have worn that same "flight attendant" suit for several more years - I swear to God, I have a distinct memory of one flight attendant from Qantas giving me a flight pin that I promptly and proudly pinned to my lapel and strutted about like a miniature flight attendant. Yeah, I was THAT kid.
"ENTSCHULDIGUNG?"
Years ago, during a particularly packed travel season for my old job, I was traveling back to New York via Frankfurt from Cairo at 4 in the morning on a Lufthansa flight. I was so tired and fighting a cold and my parents were driving me to the airport. I was in the back seat of the car bemoaning my flight, the coach class ticket I was stuck with and the very long flight home (back when "home" was New York City). All I really wanted was to be upgraded to Business Class so I could sleep on the flight. My mother said "Well, why don't you just ask?", to which my father laughed and said, mockingly, "Yeah, sure! Why not? You pair of princesses, you two... just ask and you shall receive!" I made some remark about how negative he was, but agreed that it was VERY unlikely but that I would give it a shot anyway - what did I have to lose? Mom and Dad dropped me off and headed home... I arrived at the Lufthansa counter.
The counter manager was very familiar with me on account of all the flying I used to do in and out of Cairo for my work at the time. He greeted me with a too-hyper-for-2-in-the-morning "hello!" and I walked over to him, downtrodden, beaten, tired and weary.
"Any chance at all you can get me upgraded to Business Class on this flight?"
"Ha! You're lucky if I can get you on the flight at all! We're overbooked by 90 passengers!"
"Um... what?"
"Well, I do have an Air France flight leaving RIGHT NOW, if you don't mind running. But it's a fully booked flight, so you'll have to sit in Business Class, is that okay?"
Hang on - does anyone ever say "no" to that question? "No, I'd really prefer being packed in like a sardine into a seat that's too small for the next 7 hours; but thanks anyway"? YES! I'll fucking take it. Are you kidding??
So, in a flurry of activity, with only seconds to spare, I was whisked off past security, literally running, with an Air France rep grabbing my arm and ushering me through to the flight. At which point, we heard "Entschuldigung?!!!" ("Excuse me!!!") - only to turn around and find a Lufthansa rep running like hell after us. Panting and completely out of breath, the Lufthansa guy catches up to me, and frantically waving a booklet in my face, explains that I have a voucher from Lufthansa for having been displaced from my original flight.
"A voucher? But I've been placed in Business Class on an Air France flight; I'm good"
"No, no, Ms. Farouky; we owe you an apology! Please accept this voucher from Lufthansa! But take it quickly and hurry, you're going to miss your flight!"
Okay - thank you, Lufthansa Guy. I take my voucher and Ms. Air France and I continue running.
I get on the Air France flight. I settle into my seat. In all my Business Class splendor, I look down at the voucher in my hand and read the terms. They are as follows:
"As retribution for taking you off your flight, and for accepting to be placed on a different flight, Lufthansa would like to offer you its apologies and this voucher in the amount of 1,500 EURO for the inconvenience, valid for one year." ONE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED EURO.
Man, seriously, bless those Germans and their efficiency. For serious.
Well, fuck it, with all that money, I decided to use the in-flight phone (at around 9 million EURO a call) and call my Dad on his cell phone.
"Dad? It's me. You'll never guess where I am..."
"HONEY, ARE YOU OKAY?"
About three and a half years ago, my life got seriously upended and turned completely upside down, on its ass, into a black hole and back again on its ass, just for fun. I was kind of a fucking wreck, truth be told, and not entirely "present" from a consciousness perspective. The events leading up to this "absence of consciousness" are enough to fill a Library of Congress-sized post, so best to leave all of that to another day (or never), but suffice it to say that I was colossally heartbroken and very, very vulnerable. I needed to get from Washington, DC to Augusta, Georgia in one piece, and the prospects of that happening were not guaranteed. It's not so much that the FLIGHTS during this particular time were of any consequence, as it was that the strangers I met mid-flight, in-flight, in transit and at all points in between were, I have come to believe, angels who were sent to me by some divine power and put in my way to make sure that I was okay and that I got to Georgia in one piece. First, there was the guy at the check-in counter who, upon finding me a blubbering mess who couldn't see my luggage (from all the crying), let alone lift it, came over and put his hand on my back and just said "Breathe... let me help you out."
This same man then had to contend with me discovering that I did not have a passport because it was, inconveniently, stuck at the Indian Consulate in New York being outfitted with a visa. Well, you can't damn well fly without ID, now, can you? And yet, and I still don't understand exactly how this happened, I managed to somehow get on that flight using just the following pieces of identification (I tell no lie): a scanned copy of my birth certificate that I somehow, in my rushed escape from my home, imagined I might need for my impending divorce; my Sesame Street ID Badge from work (Swear to God! The ID had a picture of Elmo on it and my picture beneath it. Oh, and this marked the SECOND time I was allowed to board a flight, within the United States, using my Elmo ID; so the next time someone tells you that flying in the United States is safe, you can tell them to suck it!), and a credit card. That was it. Even though this makes me very afraid and skeptical regarding the standards of the TSA, at that time, I was eternally grateful for this particular TSA Agent's leniency and his complete and utter disregard for the security of the rest of the passengers.
Once on the flight that was bound, first for Charlotte, and then for Augusta, I was shameless in my grief. I mean, frankly, there was no way to disguise it or to hold it back, so fuck it - I just let it all out. I was sobbing. Out loud. And heaving. And as much as I attempted to look chic and composed amidst my very obvious nervous breakdown (I wore sunglasses - that was the extent of my disguise), I think it was pretty fucking obvious to everyone on that tiny little plane - all 40 passengers bound for Charlotte - that this was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In fact, this was a woman in the violent throes of a currently occurring nervous breakdown. And I could not have given a shit by that point. The heartwarming part of this story is that, amidst all the hyper-ventilating and heaving and sobbing, the lovely male flight attendant came up to me, leaned over my chair right after we took off, put his hand on my cheek and whispered to me "Honey, are you okay?"
I don't know why, but for some reason, just that question - maybe the way he asked it, full of compassion and warmth, devoid of any judgement, no "pull yourself together" undertone, not a hint of castigation in his voice - but a simple, loving and tender "Honey, are you okay?" and I suddenly stopped crying. Well, I was still crying, but I wasn't bawling my fucking eyes out like the world had just ended, you know?
That flight, for me, was my "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers" moment.
ONE LAST TIME
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| "The Desert Fox" |
About a month and a half before my father died, my family and I sat in a doctor's office in North Carolina to discuss my father's obviously declining health and his end of life care plan. This, by all accounts, was NOT a fun conversation, but that's neither here nor there. At one point, my father's oncologist turned to my father and said "Mr. Farouky, you don't have a lot of time left. What would you like to do with the time you have left?"
My father's response was swift: "I want to race in the desert one more time."
Well, alrighty then.
Our trusty oncologist gave my father the okay to go ahead, assured us that, although my father's cancer had metastasized pretty much all over his body, the metastases to his brain had been "eviscerated" by the latest round of radiation, and he would be good to race, so long as his physical strength allowed. Well, my daddy was no pussy, let me tell you, so the decision was made and plans for the entire family - myself, my sister, my youngest nephew (the older one had to remain in school) and my mother - would all head to Cairo for my father to race in the Remal Challenge in the Bahariyyah Oasis. This was May 2013.
My father had raced in the desert for over 30 years. He is kind of a legend in that regard, having started off with motorcycles back in the early 80s and scaling up exponentially as the years went on, finally racing cars and trucks. He was so good at this, he had the nickname "The Desert Fox" bestowed on him by his peers and fellow competitors. I don't remember a time when my father wasn't racing. In fact, the image of my father in overalls covered in oil stains and carburetor fluid was so common that people often mistook him for a mechanic. Which was just fine with him... and eventually, after my sister and I got over our awkward teenage years, it became just fine with us. If he was a mechanic, you can bet your ass he was the most goddamn talented mechanic who ever lived. In April of that same year, my father had raced another desert rally and placed second. Ordinarily, this would not have been enough for him; but given that he had just finished a particularly brutal round of chemo and had just lost all of his hair in the process, the fact that he placed at all was pretty fucking impressive. It's also impressive in retrospect that he accomplished this only two months before his body was ravaged and beaten by his cancer.
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| Zimo and Amr Shannon in the 80s |
The flight to Cairo for that trip was a memorable one for me. It was the first time in years that my sister and I traveled together. My parents had traveled on a separate itinerary, and my sister, my younger nephew and I were together on this flight. This was a brutal trip. In all ways and for all reasons. We were heading back to Cairo as a family knowing, for all intents and purposes, that this was likely the last time we would be together at our villa in Maadi... this wasn't a thought that was necessarily top of mind for us, but I know that for me, it was very present. The awkwardness of preparing for a trip, buying the tickets, the mundaneness of the flying ritual, all of that - I felt so removed from it all and acutely aware of how normalized we tried to make it seem; even though, somehow, we all knew that there was practically nothing normal about this trip.
My father went on to race in his last race. And we were all there with him. On day two of the challenge, his car flipped over and the axle snapped in two, effectively ending the race for him and his co-pilot. There was one more day of racing left. Dad was out. It was 40 degrees in the shade. He had hurt his hip. He was bald from chemo. And he suddenly grew very, very tired.
But, he refused to head back to Cairo without his crew and his car. It wasn't a question of trust - not at all, I think my father trusted these men with his life more than anyone else - it was loyalty. My Dad was too weak and too tired to dig his car out of the sand. His best friends and old racing buddies (who were NOT racing this race) drove in from Cairo the night he crashed and relieved him of car-saving duties. They put everything on hold to come help his assistance crew get his car out from under all the sand. My Dad couldn't go home and leave them to do this without sticking around and supporting them, if only in spirit. So, I decided to hang out with him until he was ready to head back to Cairo.
My cousin - my uncle's son - had accompanied us on this trip. I had called him a few weeks earlier and told him that if we went to Cairo and if we went with Dad for this race, I wanted him to come along so he and I could film it all. My cousin is a filmmaker. He had begun filming a documentary of my father a few years before. I thought this would be as good a time as any to finish this film. I knew this was the last time we would be able to get my Dad on camera. I just knew. So, that's what we did. We interviewed Dad a few times. We filmed everything we could. My cousin interviewed several of my father's rally mates and his assistance crew. We have amazing footage. I haven't been able to watch any of it. I don't know when I will.
Finally, we made it back to Cairo just in time for my nephew's fourth birthday, which we celebrated together as a family. My Dad gave my nephew a medal and told him it was in honor of how helpful and great my nephew was at the rally - honestly, for a four year old, Adam was pretty fucking amazing. He didn't complain once about the heat or the lack of activity for a young kid or the fact that 5 adults were sharing one room with three beds. He just went with the flow, bless him. He was a trooper and totally deserved that medal. Of course, he'll grow up one day and realize that this "medal" was actually one of his mother's track-and-field medals from the 90s, and he might wonder why it says "100 meter sprint" on it, but until then, we're all happy to pretend this is Zimo's special award to Adam for being such a great helper.
The day after my nephew's birthday, and with a few weeks left before my parents were scheduled to head back to the US, my mother called at 7 in the morning and told me to change their tickets for "as soon as possible, your Dad is not doing well." We changed the tickets, we arranged for all sorts of oxygen tanks and engaged in an extremely complex series of emails and arrangements with Delta and Air France and Atlanta Airport before we were able to secure my father a non-stop supply of oxygen-on-demand so that he wouldn't suddenly find himself out of breath mid-flight or in transit. We worried about whether or not he would make it for the almost 17 hour trip back to Raleigh, North Carolina. We worried that my mother would be too overwhelmed to go back with him. I went over to their house the night before they left (I was scheduled to follow a few days later) and I helped my Dad pack his bags, one last time.
My father and I had been very honest with each other and had engaged in brutally open conversations about the likelihood that he was dying - and soon. I don't know if Dad had the same conversation with anyone else in the family, we haven't discussed that, but with me it was very understood. The night we were packing his bags, Dad couldn't move around too much anymore without running out of breath, so he sat on his chair in his bedroom and I packed while he directed me. "Put this here - no! Fold it like this! Okay, better" Eye roll. "Daaaaddd... you know, I'm not disabled. I can actually figure out how to fold your damn pants..." and so on and so forth. At one point, almost done with all the packing, we had one thing left to put in the suitcase. His winter jacket. This was in May. There was no room left in the suitcase. I paused for a moment and then looked up at my father, who was looking at me, and he said "Oh, kiddo... I don't think I'm going to be needing the jacket, honey." The prospect of Dad being around in 6 months was absurd if you took one look at him that day. So I smiled, I nodded, I said "You know what? In case you do need it, I'll bring it with me next week, okay?" Okay. We agreed. And finished packing. Worst fucking packing experience ever. And somehow, a beautiful experience, nonetheless. Maybe the honesty of it all. Maybe the fact that my Dad finally let me help him do something he was sure he could do better. Maybe the fact that we got to spend an hour just chit-chatting and folding his clothes and putting them in a bag. I don't know... but I cherish it. All of it.
My father died three weeks later. That's a whole other story for another time, but the trip to and from Cairo during my father's last month alive was bittersweet, painful, exciting, impressive (the man raced in 40 degree heat one MONTH before he died... think about that for a second), melancholic... just a big basket of feelings and emotions. Of course, given my tendency to cry at high altitudes, there was a butt-load of crying on the return flight. I assume this is a given.
Bottom line: My father was a fucking rock star. That is all.
(This video is NOT the film my cousin and I worked on. This is a tribute made by my father's racing buddies in his memory.)
TAKE FLIGHT
Beyond these notable and memorable trips, I remember so many incidents and feelings that are evoked by memories of trips gone by. For instance, I remember the feeling I had when I took my flight to New York City back in 1997 when I had decided to go live there. I was scared to death. I was young-ish (25 is pretty young, right?); I was broke, but full of promise and excitement and the wonders of "what can happen will happen" and feelings of euphoria at a dream of living in New York Fucking City being finally fulfilled! I had only dreamed of this possibility. But, one broken heart and a failed relationship and I was NYC-bound with two suitcases, $700 courtesy of my beautiful Mom and Dad, and dreams galore. Dreams of new beginnings and big lives and tall buildings. I definitely got new beginnings, and certainly a big life (albeit in VERY small spaces - glorified closets, really, for the price of half your life savings, but who the fuck cares? It's New York City!), and very, very tall buildings. New York, and my life in it for 13 years, far exceeded every dream and any expectation I may have had when I boarded that flight on April 12, 1997. I have never regretted that trip. And what a trip.
COMING HOME
I remember the flight back to Cairo on May 18th, 2011, heading BACK to my life in Egypt after 14 glorious years in the United States. Heading back "home" to heal, to mend, to try and piece together the many fragmented pieces of a very shattered heart and many, many broken dreams. A divorce will do that to a girl, and even though I am over it all now, I remember feeling like that trip was the exact polar opposite of the flight TO New York City in 1997 - this one was devoid of dreams, certainly not filled with excitement and absolutely not a happy trip. It was more of the "downtrodden, beaten and defeated" variety and filled with many, many tears due, no doubt, to the fucking altitude!
Interestingly, though, in retrospect I can say that despite all the shittiness of that trip, there was something rather comforting about it all. Coming home is an interesting thing, isn't it? Good or bad, it's home. It's where your soul was fed and nurtured; and we don't forget that which touches our soul... it's like the comfort of the womb, somehow. I never, in a million years, had planned to live in Egypt again. Never. It was not an option. And yet, one divorce, and suddenly I'm on a plane headed for Cairo like the world is running out of fucking countries! Even I am still stunned by the non-negotiable-ness of that decision. I remember telling stunned friends that, in the end, home is where my heart needed to go to be healed. I would think of heading back to the US at times and want to vomit. I took that as a sign.
I also remember far less poignant flights with much less symbolism and of almost no import whatsoever, but still memorable to me for one reason or another - like the one time I was flying, in December, from Tanzania to Jordan on my way to Ramallah for the very first time. Apart from the prospect of being on my way to Palestine - which, to me, was EPIC - I remember the trip because I was accompanied on the flight by a family of four Australians who were, I'm assuming, Muslim converts. The father was dressed in a to-just-above-the-ankles galabeyya, the mother was covered entirely with nary an eye slit to be seen, in full-on niqab, and the two kids were adorable and rowdy, as kids will be. Nothing about this was disturbing, but perhaps a little curious. Thick Aussie accents, in full-on Islamic attire. Interesting.
Disturbing, however, was the sudden SCREAMING of the 4-5 year old girl who, out of the blue, upon taxiing for take-off, began reciting the Quran at an unreasonable volume and her mother encouragingly saying "Good girl! Let everyone hear you speak the word of Allah!" Listen, I'm not going to lie to you, this is post 9/11; I was fucking worried, okay? I don't know about you, but I much prefer my religious co-passengers reciting their holiness in voices that cannot be heard. But barring that, I would really fucking appreciate it if your 4 year old didn't SCREAM "La Illah illa Allah!" at hyper decibel volumes with you covered in midnight black and prodding her on to "spread the truth." Jesus, not in today's world. Please.
Then there was the Royal Jordanian flight I took with my friend from New York to Amman that ended with us both being slightly inebriated and VERY despised by pretty much the entire flight - crew and passengers alike. It started off innocently enough - an 11-hour flight in the middle of the night; what are two girls to do? Why, drink, of course. By the 4th mini-bottle of vodka, we were arbitrarily cut off by one particularly snarky flight attendant. Not one to be restricted in any way, I proceeded to have a very logical and feminism-focused conversation with the Head Flight Attendant. People were not amused. Arguments of sexism and forced morality were thrown about. The words "oppression" and "Nazi" may or may not have been thrown in for good measure. Basically, it was a disaster. Of course, to shut us up, the crew acquiesced and brought us more alcohol, but by the end of the flight, Michelle and I felt like we were wearing two HUGE Scarlet Letters B (for Bitch) across our chests. It was not a pleasant flight by all accounts, but boy did we laugh our Scarlet Letter Asses off!
Or the one time I flew to and from Hawaii with the most evil person I've ever met. For that story, see the post titled "Does Aloha Also Mean Fat in Hawaiian?" because I just can't get into that one again.
"PLEASE REMAIN SEATED UNTIL THE FASTEN SEAT BELT SIGN IS TURNED OFF"
For all its wonders and the as-yet-inexplicable-to-me physics of how on earth this fucking bus of steel stays up in the air, the most fascinating part of flying for me is the myriad observations of human nature and the never-ending amusement to be had just by watching people as they travel. For one thing, what the fuck is it about the mad rush to stand up the INSTANT the plane hits the runway? Seriously? Have you not done this enough times by now to know that there ain't no fucking way you're getting off this flight any faster than if you just sat your ass down and waited, like everyone else? Plus, aren't we too old to be yelled at by the flight attendants for standing up while the plane is still moving? Come on, people. This never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes it also really pisses me off. I notice that lately, I am pissed off often when I travel. Maybe I need to invest in a for-the-plane-only bottle of Xanax, I don't know, but lately, travelers are really getting on my last nerve. Truth is, I might be going too far in the OTHER direction - I was once so relaxed about getting off the flight, waiting for the absolute last passenger to disembark, that I ended up getting yelled at by the crew because they almost left me on the plane all alone and I was, apparently, "holding everyone up on the tarmac in the bus!!" In fairness to me, this could just be because they were a Swiss crew and we know how particular the Swiss are about timing; Jeez!
All told, the process of getting from point A to point B (or Z) amazes me still; even after all these years and all these flights. I STILL get a thrill from the IDEA of leafing through the Duty Free catalog. My thrill often turns quickly to disappointment when I realize that Duty Free actually sucks these days and is nowhere near as exciting as it used to be when I was younger, but a girl can dream.
I still get excited about the idea of curling up under a blanket (my own - because much like the bathroom floor situation, I've learned the hard way to NEVER use an airline blanket and to always take my own. Same goes for the pillows. Just trust me and don't ask too many questions. You may never fly again if you ask) and taking a nap. I love the disconnectedness of the experience, whether it's in the airport or on the plane itself, and yet I find the whole idea of sitting and, if you're lucky enough to get any, sleeping in such close proximity to a person you've never met before and are unlikely to ever meet again, very odd and a little awkward.
Ultimately, the idea that you get on a plane with a destination and a purpose - be it work, vacation, funerals, weddings, last trips home with a dying father, or first trips out to a new life - each flight, each trip, each experience brings with it this sense of something unknown.
Will there be turbulence? Who the hell knows?! Will the fish give me food poisoning? Only time will tell! Will the guy next to me end up snoring so loudly that I'll want to jump from the plane and engage the parachute? You never can tell! Isn't that all so exciting? I think so.
And even as the allure and the romanticism of flight and travel are slowly, and yet determinedly, being chipped away with every passing year (and every passing birthday), I still love the fact that, to date, I can get on a plane, turn off my phone, be completely unreachable for a few hours (or days, depending on the journey), and watch a really cheesy movie that will undoubtedly make me sob (on account of the altitude, I insist!). This is a prospect I STILL look forward to every time.
Even when I'm cranky and hating everyone.
Even when I have to practically disrobe and humiliate myself with a body search.
Even when I have that one goddamn bottle of cream that is 3.5 fucking Fl oz. and has to be discarded (Fuck!).
Even then, I still get in that seat, fasten that seat belt, and somehow drift off into the promise of what MIGHT be waiting at the other end of this adventure.
Fly me to the moon, I say... Sign me up.
Fly me to the moon, I say... Sign me up.
