AIR TRAVEL NO PICNIC TODAY
I just returned from air travel after a week wandering around amazing Yellowstone National Park. During the usual three-hour flight delay in Salt Lake City my wife and I waited on a hard bench in Terminal 402Z with other dozing citizens.
I stayed alert. None of that giving in to the usual “flight fatigue” for me. I think it was the good night’s sleep in the mountains, the high-energy breakfast, and the way my wife jabbed what I believe was a hat pin into my buttocks every ten minutes.
We settled into a nice pattern–with me alternating my time between shrieking and standing in line in the Men’s Room. That enlarged prostate does not do well traveling.
I loved to fly 40 and even 50 years ago.
Well, actually my first plane experience was a bummer. A turbulent one in a Navy PBY seaplane. It lived up to its “rough ride” rep in the ’40s. I nearly tossed my cookies during one hysterical moment when we lost altitude, yet somehow avoided crashing into the middle of Lake Michigan.
Flying commercial after that, conditions were infinitely better. In the jet-age, I found I could enjoy a zen-like peace and serenity while zipping comfortably and safely toward a destination at 30,000 feet (or whatever).
We actually dressed up to board any flight in those days. At least to the degree we didn’t look like we just fell out of bed and slipped on the wrong-size pants. No air travel in torn undershirts, piercings or cut-off jeans.
Most often a few, or lots, of empty seats were available to sprawl over. Overhead space wasn’t jammed with strollers and pottery. (No selling of last-minute seats in the lavatory as on today’s packed flights.)
I still can’t get used to calling stews “flight attendants.” And most were so easy-on-the-eyes and service made you feel special and not a race to unload the cart.
You could pretty much figure to get wherever on time, weather permitting (well, Midway in Chicago was a little dicey and landings in San Diego were more like controlled crashes).
Speaking of San Diego, PSA made a name for itself in the (then) little Navy town. They instituted a kind of shuttle-bus service every few hours to L.A. and SanFran. Believe tickets ran around $10 or $12 (roundtrip? to Los Angeles).
PSA flight attendants (I mean “stews”) at one time wore hot pants and many were ex-models. Always friendly, they made humorous announcements in flight, improving on the boring safety pitch we still endure today. Business men dug the convenience and the eye candy. The company grew like crazy until taken over by U.S. Air.
On long flights American, Delta and United served hot meals. Not everyone agrees, but I thoroughly enjoyed wolfing one down after a relaxing toddy. I’d then recline to maybe listen to some music. Movies on long flights were offered FREE.
Slowly, nearly all amenities dissolved.
Today’s traveler, in ragged jeans and tank top is checking in for a boarding pass while talking on a cell phone and eating lunch. On the plane, he listens to stereo, works on his laptop computer and observes the cocktail hour at $5 a pop. Or falls asleep, mouth agape, on your shoulder.
And I won’t even mention the block-long lines at Security and the indignities of undressing, shoes off, and going through all but a strip-search when sent to a secondary station (which my 70-year-old, five-foot, wife always is - because she wears a bunch of hairpins in her coif, so TWO guards check her twice for bombs concealed in her big hair!)
On our flight from Salt Lake City, the usual fun and games began upon landing at San Diego’s airport. First, of course, was the sweaty half-mile jaunt from the gate to jockey for position at the baggage carousel. After watching dizzily for an inexplicable spell, I began to grow lonely.
Only three of us were left standing, hypnotically watching the mechanical merry-go-round.
Well before the month came to a close, the machinery finally came to a grinding halt. One lousy unclaimed suitcase remained.
A traveler’s worst fear. Our luggage with the little plaid ribbon tied on for swifter spotting was AWOL.
Still rational at that point, I headed directly for the lost luggage office. (I’ve been there before.)
In a controlled voice, I told the woman behind the counter that my bags never showed up. She smiled and told me not to worry because she was a trained professional and I was in good hands.
“Now,” she began officiously, “has your plane arrived yet?”
I’m serious. Those people walk among us.