Friday, December 14, 2007

It is a commute, not a journey

8:05 am Central Time – Somewhere over Corpus Christie, TX

Is it going to be one of those traveling days? Let me say commute days. Flying is not traveling. It is simply commuting from point A to B.

After liftoff from Monterrey I settled myself to get a catnap. 30 – 40 minutes would do wonders to my tired body and mind. I made myself thin in my seat, made sure no limbs where sticking out into the isle space. But...I was halfway down the tunnel to dreamland when…Whack!...The steward ran his cart into the back of my seat. Thank you very fucking much. But as the advert goes…But wait, there’s more. With the cart parked right next to me, he opened the first tin of soft drink and sprayed me with the gases of the fizz. Only lightly, but still. It adds to the growing “pleasure of the commute. But wait! Up comes the chatty pilot or co-pilot or who ever the hell make the announcements just to inform us that he will now be switching of the seat-belt light and he estimate we will be landing on time in Houston. COME ON! Just put the bloody light off. You don’t have to tell me about it. The passengers that are awake will see it. Those that want to sleep don’t give a shit.

When the 1 year old toddler across the isle started to through a tantrum because he rather wanted to sit with his mummy behind me, who is already handling her 5-6 year old daughter, than with his daddy, I gave up and started to write this post. The little bugger eventually got his way and went to sit with his mom, but the loud-mouth kept on screaming from time to time just because he can. “Discovering his voice” I guess. Then it was the pilot’s turn again, announcing our descend, still 90 miles away, then the steward to say they will be coming through and cleanup the cabin. Then the pilot again telling us he will be switching on the seat-belt light, then the steward again…and on and on it went.

The commute is usually the only part of travel, foreign of domestic, that I dislike. Immensely dislike. They also say that you should enjoy the journey as much as the actual destination. BS! Maybe if you go by private jet with top drawer service. To journey in style like they use to do in the 19th and early 20th century, you have to journey by sleeper train or by ship. But otherwise…the commute is a necessary evil.

Liftoff from George Bush Airport, Houston, TX – 11:05 am Central Time

It seems that it is going to be one of those traveling days. How fucking unlucky can I be? Getting a seat directly below an uncontrollable vent that blows cold air onto my head. Now if there is one thing I dislike and get my blood boiling then it is to sit in a draft. It’s because I know the result, most of the time, will be a 24-48 hour cold. And I hate feeling sick and shit. To prevent a mental workup, I got up, took a pill to prevent heartburn from the quick hotdog I had at the airport and another for an arthritis knee, put my head back, ignored the draft and its consequences and fell asleep. Thank goodness the pilot and the stewardess got on with their job without chatting about it, and I only woke up when we descend into the clouds 40 miles from Lexington. I woke up with a blocked nose, but felt much better after an hour’s sleep.

It’s what I and many others wanted to do on the morning’s flight, but weren’t allowed to do. Is a catnap too much to ask?

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