Dateline The Road — I’m going on vacation to California. I do all the usual things to get ready: Pack my two bags, one carry-on and one personal bag, load up my Kindle, even though I always buy a paperback at the airport, and check in on my computer the day before my flight. Wait a minute—it says they don’t have my seat, but I can get one for $99. Is this a scam? I bought my ticket months ago. I am pretty sure I chose my seat then. After consulting my husband (translation: me ranting and raving, him calmly suggesting), it looks like I will have to check-in in person, something I haven’t done in years.
We drive to the airport the next day, and I wait in a short line. After a minute, Mr. Attendant nods his head to gesture me over. Rude. He asks, “Where are we going?” I say, “I’m going to California.” He gives me my ticket with the seat I had paid for months ago, no problem. I bring my carry-on and personal bag. I kiss my patient husband goodbye and go through security in record time.
I wait at the gate and I hear my name being called over the loudspeaker. “Alexandra…(pause to figure out how to say my last name)…Vaillancourt…please come to the gate. I go to the desk at the gate and am asked if I mind changing my seat so that a mother and child can sit together. I oblige, of course, but wonder how this woman bought two seats that weren’t together in the first place. Air travel ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure.
Passengers board the plane according to their groups. I’m in the last group, 5. Even though they’re only calling Group 1, lots of people are making lines for the other four groups. Why stand all that time? And why does Group 1 go first, with seats closest to the front? If it were my airline, I would fill up the back of the plane first so that people wouldn’t be stuck behind other people putting their carry-ons awkwardly in the overhead bins.
At last, Group 5 is called to board. The attendant scans my ticket, and I go down the long corridor between the gate and the plane. All the people who were in such a hurry to get on the plane have to wait in this long hall anyway. What’s the rush? As I am about to get on the plane, the attendant who asked if I’d change my seat comes to me and says she has to check my carry-on bag. I protest. She says she just got the order, there’s no more room in the bins. I tell her that my bag is the smallest one on the plane—it doesn’t even have wheels! She insists. I relent, telling her that if they lose my bag, there will be big trouble. She tells me not to worry.
There are TV screens on the back of every seat. It’s Shark Week. Because I don’t know if headphones cost money and I don’t feel like asking, I watch the same show about a shark 7 times. It’s something about one particular shark’s fin. It’s riveting. Not. A man is sitting diagonally behind me. He’s watching something else. A comedy, I assume, because he’s giggling. His laugh is high pitched. He sounds as though he’s done something naughty, but I know that he’s watching some funny show. I hope.
The rest of the flight is uneventful. I make it to my destination, and delight in the cool breeze and humidity free air of central California. First stop, a Mexican restaurant—Boston is not exactly known for its taquitos.
To be continued…
Ms. Vaillancourt may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com
