Up

Inspired by the completely addictive column of Patrick Smith, here's a digression from the usual topic:

Flights- a flight a day calendar.

The first flight I ever took was to Russia out of Newark at age 13. There was a leg from Rochester, NY, to Newark (which I dearly wish I had taken, as the group I was with totally bonded on that flight, apparently, leaving me at a serious disadvantage for the rest of the trip), but I was on a family vacation prior to the trip and we took the car to Newark.

This flight was, from my dim recollection, like riding a bus. We scampered up and down the aisles, switched seats, perched on armrests to talk to one another, etc, etc. (lucky flight attendants!), I recall listening to two cassettes over and over: Red Rain by Peter Gabriel (I'm probably misidentifying this album title, so feel free to correct me- maybe it was "Big Time"?), and Hysteria by Def Leppard (an album that is tailor- made for flying, what with the explosive, liquid nitrogen song that is Rocket Man, the slow honey hum of "Love Bites", and the rattle and soar of "Women".).

I can't remember much about this, or much about the probably 100 or more flights I took to visit my dad in Philly from Rochester, every other weekend for about 4 years, except for one memorable flight I was accidentally put in First Class, and that I was able to listen to my Discman all through the flights in those days, even on takeoff (!!). If you were to make a hipster music video of my flights through the ages, you would start with a taxi- yellow "sport" Walkman, then go to the Discman, then the first gen iPod, then a shot of me playing with the latest iPod Touch in cerulean, in the Chicago airport, Tokyo-bound last year.

Somewhere between 13 and 21 I went from jaded flier to fearful (Sept 11, anyone?) and the flight I took at age 25 was hair raising- a two- leg flight from Rochester to St. Louis/ Kentucky and then another leg to Denver for a five day vacation. What's worse than the caul of death you feel during decent? Knowing you'll have to endure it again in just a few hours on the second leg of your flight.

However, the flights themselves, and the airports, are a blur. The only airport I have any clear memories of is Rochester, NY, which is airy, clean, and pretty, with a McDo that opens at 5 am, thank god. JFK is indeed "grimy" as Patrick Smith points out, and I had to hang out with an NYC based friend during a four hour layover in a dingy semi-bowels area that was open to the freezing street and had like, 5 tatty little chairs and a "Half Starbucks" (It was still better than nothing, I 'spose). I can recall the Denver airport having several "green" initiatives and a Body Shop store, and being very, very crowded. Also, the Atlanta airport is the 10th circle of Hell. It's somehow designed to crush your soul.

The flight from hell: actually I had it good: a super storm slammed the east coast, and I foolishly flew out of Buffalo to connect through ATL to Baton Rouge,despite the worsening weather, where I was supposed to present at an academic conference. (It sounds a lot more glamorous than it was, but it was still pretty damn cool.) I was naturally stranded at ATL, and riding the snake machine people mover, walking the entire length of the earth to stand in the freezing cold for my hotel shuttle, was akin to karmic retribution for sins I wasn't even sure I'd committed yet.

I do recall there was a busload of blonde, handsome, affable pilots and crew on with me in the shuttle, and they were planning on going out to the hotel bar. I was scheduled for a 6.30 AM back to Buffalo, as there were no flights to Baton Rouge, and I barely made the Buffalo flight. I was lucky, my plane had a mechanical failure, so I was given a hotel voucher, others not so lucky were left in airport (the airline won't compensate you if you're fool enough to fly in extreme weather and you miss your connection due to weather- I sort of agree, it's not their fault, but then again I had a hotel room) , which had become a crowd scene from an Indiana Jones movie. Now, a few years later, I'd like to think I would join these handsome, carefree guys for a few drinks and take a later flight, but then I was heartbroken over not being able to go to the conference and I just lay there in my sterile luxury and cried.

The flight home from ATL to Buffalo was terrifying. Even the businessmen behind me were nervous "Where the fuck they putting this fucker down?" They blustered, exactly vocalizing my thoughts, as the plane wobbled in over a frozen Lake Eerie, giving us passengers the feeling that it was about, oh, 1 inch above the water. We were all a tad over-anxious.

My flights from my homeland to my new homeland, the Philippines, were charmed, and you can read about them in my first blog entry, but I think the length of the flights, and the exhausting lines, layovers, and security screenings all contributed to a lovely cognitive dissonance that wrapped me in warm fuzzy of gentle awe as we glided into Narita, which, while for sure overcrowded, is so clean it's surgical. I was so happy to be there I was thrilling to things like Yen signs on food, so I'm not in any position to criticize.

On my way through Narita back to NYC I was a little more critical (the long hallways with no markings they send you through from the gate to the snakes and ladders departure gates are a phobia maker in and of themselves-- one suffers from the distinct sensation of being "corralled", which is never pleasant), but the twinkle of Japanese fashion stars sprinkled through the airport, looking amazing and otherworldly, yet ultra cool, made up for that. Wearing odd, yet amazingly well constructed Eastern influenced haute couture, they are part of a group of people that exist in every airport everywhere: Professional Travelers.

They're groomed. Their skin looks dewy. They order Jack Daniels or white wine. They somehow never create a mountain of trash with their in flight meal. They're glued to their animal skin covered Blackberry. They look like Audrey Hepburn on the telephone on her wedding day (see above), they read casually and calmly, with a pencil in their beautiful mouth, while the plane rattles and shakes like a third- world bus on a mountain overpass, and they fill in that last square of the crossword puzzle, and on touchdown the stretch like a panther and finally notice you. "Stayin' in CHI?" they ask with a lazy, gorgeous smile. "See ya later, partner."

Their luggage is never broken. It weighs about 5 ounces, as they swing it down from the overhead bin effortlessly, while you try to cram your tatty paperback into your overstuffed canvas carryall with the PBS logo all but washed out on the side. Long live PTs.

The most beautiful flight I took (that I can recall, my pictures of Eastern Europe, taken out of the window on my long haul to Russia, are amazing, but I can't for the life of me remember the sights) was the Dulles to NYC coming home from the US just this last November. I didn't write about this trip, time got away from me, but the decent into JFK over the water and over (I think) the Hamptons in winter, was stunning. Getting incrementally closer to the mansions and brown, wind swept sands, then watching the ground get more and more crowded by houses, football fields, apartments, parking lots, and all that, in the mid morning sun, was enough to bring a lump to the throat of Joe Pesci. It was as if the city and it's outlaying areas had flung down a red carpet for our flight path, just for us.

One memorable moment from my recent long haul Tokyo- NYC ("our estimated flight time today is 13 hours 45 minutes" the flight attendants chirped over the mike. Oh, is that all!) was mid-flight over the Arctic Circle, there was a line for the loo, and some of us milled around in the bulkhead area, peeping out the window at the spectacular play of white capped mountains and snow far, far below. I have no idea where we were, but it was a cool moment: a group of strangers taking tacit turns marvelling out a little window at the unknown delights and terrors below.

This was on a plane that had a little spiral staircase to an upper level, as well as two boarding doors-- sorry Patrick, haven't a clue what the name is-- but I will say I do like it when the flight attendants announce what type of plane it is on the boarding announcements, it gives me an entirely unearned swell of pride, some kind of "This is what it's all about- 'Welcome aboard the Blah Blah airlines 747 Airjet' (or whatever they say-)- this is living"( and I love when they say "YOUR 747 comes equipped with 8 doors, two over the aft cabin, etc, etc"-- MY PLANE! MINE!!) , but I can never recall what they say. I remember being thrilled by the gaudy, whimsical colors of a KoreaAir plane that was parked up in the gate next to mine- it was painted with a kind of carnival mask in gold and pink, and it was as bold as brass. Welcome to Asia.

I look out the window. Aside from being heart-rendingly cool, and a (usually) once in lifetime experience,it actually helps with being afraid. The other things that help: Thinking, over and over "The pilot doesn't want to crash any more than you do." Reading the scariest book you can find. (Usually early Stephen King, from when he really knew how to bring it.) Taking sleeping pills (although they can give you very odd dreams and leave you in a kind of half awake state that can be very frightening). Talking to a friend. Being on a plane trip you really want to take. Thinking about car crashes. Reminding yourself that even private jets have turbulence (as demonstrated by that extremely scientific show, Criminal Minds). Trying to "be cool" for some kind of self image that you're always carving away at. Walking around a bit, trying to pretend it's a Greyhound bus.

I'm still not a super calm fly-er, but then again, who is in this age of "no liquid" and padding through the security post in stocking feet, and kissing loved ones goodbye at the curb, instead of at the jetway?

A half life of flights, even scary ones, is better than one that never leaves the ground.