The Reluctant Traveler

Some Notes from a Seattle Vacation

If I had my druthers, I’d never fly commercial again. Say what you want about safety—I’ll take my chances on my motorcycle. Being crowded into an aluminum tube with a hundred other folks and fired through the sky with the same velocity as a .45 caliber bullet just doesn’t do it for me.

I’m not particularly nervous about flying, either. I probably know more than the average lay person about the theory of flight, jet propulsion, inertial and satellite navigation and a whole bunch of other related topics. Could I go up front in a real emergency and bring the plane in for a safe landing? Probably not, but at least I’d be willing to try and would be able to find flaps, throttles, landing gear and whatever.

No, it’s just the inconvenience and hassles of flying ever since 9/11. Watching little grannies and children taking off their shoes and being run through metal detectors just really gripes my ass. Having my luggage searched is something I don’t like, either. Layovers at airports, where there’s time on your hands, but not enough time to really do anything, also tend to piss me off.

The airport in Wichita, KS is sort of a joke. They’d like everyone to think it’s a big, modern facility, but truth of it is, there are about ten or twelve gates, one security checkpoint and one baggage carousel. The airlines more or less demand you be there two hours before your flight is to board.

At Wichita, the airline counters are closed until 5:00 AM. So if your flight is to depart at six, what do you do for that random hour before there’s even anyone there? Sorry, I’m not doin’ that. I’ll be there when you open, fine, but I’m not sitting in an uncomfortable chair on the concourse, listening to the Muzak version of Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms album for an hour. Not happenin’.

Departure from Wichita mandates that you will change planes somewhere. I do not know of any direct flights anywhere from Wichita, except maybe that gambler’s redeye flight that goes to Vegas. If you pick the wrong airline, you can find yourself flying to Atlanta to get to Phoenix, or some such nonsense. Apparently, it’s all a matter of economics.

 I think everyone should have a thorough background check if they are going to be flying and once they’re cleared by the proper bureaucrats, they should be issued a card with a barcode, mag strip, hologram and anything else needed to make it secure and they should be able to show the card, have it scanned into the system, have a quick fingerprint or retinal scan and be passed around security, so they can go listen to Muzak more quickly.

On a recent flight back from Seattle, I was squeezed in next to an obese Latina woman whose breath and body odor were not only making me slightly nauseous, but it was also impossible not to come into contact with her pungent flesh. Why do really porky women insist on wearing short skirts and sleeveless tops, with low-cut necklines? Do they really think their unwashed bodies are that attractive to the rest of us? Makes for a long flight, Buddy…

This chick brought groceries, too. How she ever got all that crap past security is beyond me. When the seatbelt sign went out, this babe flipped down her tray table, and mine, and proceeded to set up a picnic. I’m not kidding—she ate her way clear to Denver. Try as I might, I found it very difficult to ignore all the munching, crunching and slurping going on a foot from my face. Like standing in the barn with a dairy cow that has a big sign stuck to her udder that reads, “Ignore this cow!”

Okay, maybe I’m not being fair. I’m sure she’s somebody’s mom and she probably has a great personality. I never got the chance to find out, though, because she spent the whole flight in Twinkieville…

Anyway, motorcycle travel is much nicer. You get fresh air, sunshine, and most if not all of the cattle are behind fences. And if I get creamed by a semi, so be it…and don’t even get me started on the luggage thing...KJC 7/12/08