December 30, 2004

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation, Part II

In which the author details his flights to England.

At this point I should add something: the TSA agent doing the security search was perfectly personable and friendly. It was almost as if he thought having to search me was a stupid thing too - of course, he gets the benefit of a paycheck for it where all I get is source material for a rant and the comforting knowledge that I'm not going to bring down a plane - whew!

Fully recovered from the nonsense of my previous ordeal, I boarded the plane without further scrutiny. 'Twas then that I found myself planted one row in front of an infant.

Being father to a wee one of my own, I realized that - if the 757 were a city - my seat would have sold for slum prices, perhaps even been condemned as uninhabitable. I attempted to console myself with the fact that it was just a jump to Chicago, a mere two hours, surely I'd survive; suddenly, my savior did appear from on high (or down the aisle, but I was seated, and he was standing, so "on high" works too).

A flight attendant - most likely named Bruce and in possession of a catty streak and a penchant for fashion - asked if I would mind moving seats so that another family could all sit together. I kid you not, there was the singing of angels, a holy tabernacle choir of de-balled little boys, rejoicing at this fortuitous bit of news.

I settled into my new window seat, sitting next to a mostly normal-looking couple, and stowed my backpack safely under the seat in front of me. I again beamed inwardly at my good fortune.

Unfortunately, as would be apparent in mere moments, all that previous harmonizing had drowned out a lone trumpet from the Book of Relevation.

As we leveled off at cruising altitude, the mostly normal-looking couple revealed themselves to be (best guess) true-blue Boulderites. Or hippies. Or vegans. Or all of the above. While Mrs. Normal-Looking Couple assumed some sort of Indian-style sitting position (not easy to do in an airplane seat), Mr. NLC pulled out a plastic container that at one time held the substance known as "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."

I've no clue what it held on that day, but I think "I Can't Believe It's Not Stale Cat Urine" might be close to the truth. They seemed to enjoy it, but they were from Boulder* so that's not a shocker. Damn "progressives" and their cat-piss-eating ways.

Then it started. "It" being the all-too-identifiable thump that comes from a child kicking the back of one's seat. The thump that continues when said child's parents do nothing to stop said child from continuing said thumping as an exclamation to every sentence uttered.

I focused my attention on the seats behind me, listening for any further clue as to with whom I might be dealing. They were an Australian family - possibly New Zealanders, but as they didn't seem to have sheep strapped to their genitals, I felt comfortable going with the Aussie categorization. Their son, he of the kicking leg, seemed to be more reminiscent of the beginning and end of Flowers for Algernon than the middle**.

This was further exemplified when, on approach to Chicago, his parents pointed out the "stadium of the Chicago whatevers, one of their sports teams." I didn't have the heart to tell them that the object of their attention was, at most, a high-school football stadium; coming from Alabama, where football is king, we know what it means to build a stadium***. The whole exchange made me wonder what the Aussie mom and dad had named their own pet mice since Algernon was already taken.

Soon after, we landed at O'Hare International Airport, whereupon our "direct" flight continued after a "plane change." Thankfully it was to a 777, with plenty of room, video at each seat, and I was in the very back of the plane, so no Aussie rugrats to annoy my security-riddled behind. Passing the time with the book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (would have been better if twenty pages shorter), the movie Wicker Park (worth a rent, if you ask me), and more than one glass of red wine, I soon found myself at London's Heathrow airport.

still more to come

Note: You can find Part I here.

* Hey, hey, speaking of Boulder...

*** However, some colleges in Colorado still aren't sure.