Friday, January 27, 2006
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Happy Birthday to Me
An elderly married couple is taking the very first plane trip of their lives. Unfortunately, the entire flight is troubled with severe turbulence; up, down, back, forth...the couple are terrified and ill the whole time. Finally, they land safely. The wife turns to the husband and says, "That's the last time I fly United."
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
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