David reads the text from American Airlines.
“Our flight’s delayed by an hour,” he says. This is troublesome in that we’ll miss our connecting flight out of Dallas. He does a quick search and continues, “Looks like there aren’t any other flights at that time or earlier.”
“Not only that,” I tell him. “But the hot water heater’s not working.”
He slumps. Our travel day isn’t off to an auspicious start.
Other than taking Dilly to the dog sitter, I’m packed and ready. Delivering her to Sunrise Beach and returning home will take forty-five minutes.
“We could drive it,” I suggest.
The drive to Dallas is just over three hours. A hassle, but it’ll get us there in time. We alter our plans. David rushes to finish his packing—but on the road from dropping off Dilly, he calls.
“Now it’s undelayed,” he says.
No damage except to our equilibrium.
Air travel is wild these days. Having heard how busy the airports are, we arrive at Austin’s Bergstrom Airport an outlandish four hours before our flight. For some reason—because we’re traveling internationally?—we’re not allowed to check in electronically. We spend an hour in the check-in line. I don’t feel grouchy about the length of the wait because things could be worse. For instance, in line behind us an Indian man and his wife shuffle along. They’re shrunken, gray, rattled by the chaos, and much too old and infirm to leave their homes.
It’s obvious from the milling crowd at the gate that the flight is going to be packed. When it’s our group’s turn to load, we’re told that the overhead compartments are full so we’re required to check our carry-ons. As do most people, I pack the necessities in my carry-on—the plugs for my devices, my Kindle and reading glasses, my laptop, and a sarape for when we reach the cool night air of Vancouver. I panic about what to grab. I understand that this happens. But how did we come to be in this group in the first place? It seems so random. I explain to the woman that I need my carry-on with me.
“Check it or you won’t get on the plane.” Abruptly, coldly, she turns away. I know she feels harassed, but so do I. I kind of hate her.
I will not have access to the possessions I consider to be necessary for the next seven hours. Flustered, I am given only a minute to decide what to carry by hand on to the flight. I grab my Kindle and my reading glasses; and my small suitcase is tagged and carried away.
When I get to my seat I rethink my pressured choices. I left my laptop in the unlocked carry-on. The chance of a baggage handler stealing my laptop is a billion to one. But on it is my latest, almost completed, novel, Sovereign Worm, a dramedy based on love potion blunders. I won’t stop fretting until I roll my carry-on away from the luggage carousel in Vancouver. Also, I resent every person on the flight who was allowed a carry-on.
UPCOMING INSENSITIVITY ALERT!
As David prefers the aisle and I like the window, in making our reservations we always leave the middle seat vacant in the hope that the flight won’t be full, and no one will take the middle seat. This led to another disturbing incident I had on my last flight with American.
The seat between us was claimed by a massive man—three-fifty would be my guess. His girthy butt cracked the armrest—literally broke it—as he forced himself into the seat. I was squashed up against the wall of the plane, his flesh spilling over on to my arm and shoulder, pressing against my hip and thigh. I wrote a note asking if there was another seat available on the plane, and if so, might I move? When the flight attendant swept by, I called out a “Hey! Please.” She came back, but was unable to see me because I was hidden by the corporeal mountain. I waved the note in the air to catch her attention; and she reached around him and plucked it from my fingers. Moving up the aisle a few feet, she assessed my pitiful situation. Then, folding the note, she walked away; and I never got a response. I mean, I could understand if she couldn’t do anything about it, but I should have received acknowledgement of, and perhaps sympathy for, my plight. Recompense in the form of a few passes to the lounge or a free ticket would’ve been thoughtful.
Back to the present: On the second leg of our journey to Vancouver, once again the middle seat has gone to an extremely overweight man. I ask if he’d mind changing places, a suggestion he’s amenable to. At least this way, I’m not pressed against the wall of the plane for hours.
As this is the second time this has happened to me, I give the matter concentrated thought and come up with an excellent solution to the problem. If the airline required customers to include weight information when they buy a ticket, the controlling powers could place all the appallingly obese people together. In that way the larger folks would be able to relax about offending the lesser sized. They could allow their flesh to overflow with abandon. They could joke with one another about the absurd disparity between their backsides and the tiny seats. Truly, all would be happy.
This idea is brilliant, and I will share it with the airline immediately.
Meanwhile, hello Vancouver! With relief, I greet my carry-on. All is well.
A lovely city!
Now I know where all the Recall Drugstores went.
View from our room at the Waterfront Fairmont.
