Air travel

“Please maintain control of your personal belongings...”


Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!

But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”


Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.

US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”

Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”


And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.

All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.

And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?

First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.

And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.

I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.

Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”

So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.

To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...