[img]396|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img]Dateline: Between Boston and Santa Monica — I'm on the plane going to California with my significant other. Since I'm not traveling by myself, which is extremely rare, I am less observant than usual. I do, however, hear a startling announcement from the cockpit: “Hey, folks, this is your Captain speaking. As you can see, we're just checking the engine before we take off. Hopefully it's just a faulty light.”
Say what?? Hopefully? They say that people want to be informed. Well, not me. If my plane's gonna go down because of something other than a faulty light, I'd rather not know. Ignorance is bliss. I'm more scared now because I know there's something wrong with the aircraft I've just strapped myself into. Thanks for the information, Mr. Pilot. NOT. At least the airplane smells good. I try to relax by telling S.O. that I like the smell of airplanes.
Our day is broken up into three-hour increments — three hours on the first flight, a three-hour layover, and three hours on the next flight. The first flight is uneventful, with the exception of a fit of giggling I have, due to a dip in my blood sugar. S.O. pats me gently and coos, handing me our bag of trail mix packed for such an occasion.
During the layover in Dallas, the smell of barbeque hits me like a ton of bricks and I announce my desire for a pulled pork sandwich. It comes with two sides. We order what we consider the healthy options — cole slaw, and broccoli and rice casserole. When we get our meal, we see that “healthy” is defined by cheesy rice with broccoli stalk chunks. We choke down our sauce-soaked meal and feel sick afterwards. Thank goodness we ordered water instead of soda.
Ummm, Do You Need Help?
On the second flight, our Captain, Johnnie Olsen, is a woman. I've never had a female pilot before. I'm sure she won't ask for directions, ha ha! (I'm here every Friday, folks). As we take off, I notice an unpleasant odor. I say to S.O., “What's that smell?” He replies, “It's airplane. I thought you liked the smell of airplanes.” I retort, “Not like this. It smells like burning rubber. It's not supposed to smell like burning rubber. Why does it smell like burning rubber?” S.O. shrugs and goes back to his book. My contacts are drying up. We have been on the plane for ten minutes.
When I fly alone, I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself for three or six or nine hours. When flying with S.O., I regress and behave like a restless child. I lean over him to take pictures of the clouds. I put my chewed gum into a piece of paper and crumple it loudly. I flip through magazines. I poke him. I tap him. He smiles kindly, placates me, and goes back to reading. I make a page of tic-tac-toe boards and shove it in his face. He has no choice but to put X's in the squares. It's a draw every time.
We land safely at our destination and wait for the courtesy bus to take us to the rental car place. Vacation 2010, here we come!
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at campbellalexandra@hotmail.com
