Europe 2022: Travel Day

Last night, my son Jake asked when we were leaving for the airport. “8:30,” I said. He asked, “What time’s your flight? Noon?” I admitted that yes, we were flying out at noon, and muttered a few defenses about international flight and checking in and making sure everything was squared away. He laughed at my anxieties.

At 4:17 this morning, I awoke. Doom-scrolling kept me in bed until 6:00, when I gave up on more sleep. As I headed to the bathroom to shower, Sherry gasped, “My side hurt all night. I think I have to go to the hospital.” Another kidney stone? For a split-second, she got me. Then I laughed. Not falling for it. And then we shared the laugh. The battery in her Jeep died while she was running errands yesterday, so my son Russ and I had to tag team a battery swap in a parking lot. One chronological catastrophic coincidence, she could pull off. Not two.

Here we are in a “first day of school” pose, ready to head to the airport:

My biggest anxiety for today, beyond missing flights or forgetting passports, is gas. Flatulence. The thing I still giggle about in private. In public, though, I’ve developed a modicum of decorum. We’ve got to sleep on this plane or we’ll drag for a week. How am I supposed to control sleep farts? I keep telling myself that everyone else on the plane has the same issue and the same anxiety. The hum of the plane’s engines, the whoosh of the circulation system, and good old Emily Post etiquette will have to mitigate. I also plan to blame Sherry for any slips. You’d be surprised how effectively a loud, sanctimonious “Sherry!” can deflect blame. No one hears the protests.

We arrived at the airport and checked in with Delta by 9:20. Our first experience with TSA Precheck delivered: no line, no undressing, no removing elctronics from backpacks. They did have to open my wife’s carryon to examine the gel-filled foot restoration slippers she’d packed, and admonished her to check those next time. We walked to the gate and sat down at 9:36, two-and-a-half hours before departure. Phew. We waited for Laura and Tina, watching the minutes tick by. 10:30 came and went. We considered texting, but didn’t want to hover. A few minutes after 11:00, they walked up, laughing that they’d been sitting in the airport Chili’s since 10:00, watching for us, wondering whether to text, and deciding not to. They didn’t want to hover.

Waiting at the gate:

My youngest, Leila, is studying Political Science at the University of Florida. She just wrote a paper on John Locke and his social contract, which holds that we cede some of our freedoms to a governing body so that we can enjoy the benefits of society. Adhering to society’s rules brings freedom for all. By boarding a plane, we agree to stow only one carryon in the overhead bins, and any additional personal item beneath the seat in front of us. Them’s the rules. Following them gives us all the freedom to carry on a bag. Sadly, the American culture has embraced individual freedom over any sacrifice for the common good. We saw that selfishness play out with face masks during the pandemic. America needs a little more Locke on airplanes.

Relegated to Group 3, we were among the last to board. By the time we boarded, all the overhead bins bulged with carryons and backpacks. We could see rows of feet stretched forward, unfettered by any items beneath the seats in front of them. As there was no room for them in the bin, flight attendants snatched our carryons, assuring us they’d be checked through to our final destination. Because we’d bought separate tickets for each leg of our journey, no one could answer whether we’d reunite with our bags in New York or in Paris. This leaves the option of “not at all” on the table. Good thing we like the clothes we’re traveling in, because we may wear them awhile.

Shortly after takeoff, the mechanism holding my seat upright gave way with a wheeze and a sigh. I fell, slow-motion, into the lap of the person behind me. I made a show of fiddling with the recliner button to demonstrate that the chair, not I, held the blame for this breach of social contract. I had to maintain the erect posture of a Marine in parade dress on my own. My core isn’t used to this much activation.

I read a book during the flight to New York — Italian Lessons, by Beppe Severgnini. After landing, I watched the guy across from me pull a satchel from the bin above him and a carryon from the bin above me. I fantasized about kicking his rolling bag as I followed him up the aisle. I did tap it once with my foot, which eased some pain. He didn’t notice. We went to baggage claim, and our carryons weren’t on the carousel. Delta confirmed that our carryons “should” be heading to Paris. As our claim checks somehow stayed behind on the plane, I hope we find our bags sitting on the carousel in Paris.

Enough griping. We are on the plane to Paris. We are giddy. We should arrive in about four hours. Time to sleep! I hope everyone is wearing ear plugs.