It’s a sentiment people toss around sarcastically. Those of us who seem to live in a strange
combination of hotels and airports often lament how awful air travel has
gotten. And in many ways, we’re
right. I remember flying when I was a
kid and it was the fanciest thing we did as a family. Mom dressed A and I up in church clothes
(matching, she said, so that if one of us got lost, she could tell the
authorities, “He looks just like this one, except bigger/smaller.” I’m not sure what the plan was if we ran off
together…) and once you found your spacious seat on the plane, the stewardess
would come by and see if you needed a blanket or pillow. If they weren’t pressed for time, they would
offer drinks before the plane took off.
Once you got off the ground, she would come by, first to offer a drink,
but then AGAIN to offer a meal. There
was never a rushed, chaotic feel. Nobody
was ever rude or harsh. My knees, albeit
the knees of a child, did not grind into the seat in front of me. And this was just the late 80’s and early
90’s I’m reminiscing about. Hearing my
grandfather speak of traveling in the 50’s and 60’s sounds downright
luxurious. So yes, we are right; air
travel is not what it once.
But we’re flying. We
are in a giant metal tube above the clouds.
There are clouds below us. We are
a mere two or three generations from that being unfathomable, except perhaps on
top of mountain with the ground firmly beneath your feet.
Today has been a stressful travel day. I am slightly worn down by the aggressive
schedule I’ve been keeping and am not refreshed by the lack of a light at the
end of the tunnel. I almost missed my
flight. Several airline employees were
less helpful than they may have been.
Texting back and forth with dad, I tapped out the phrase, “Oh, the joy
of traveling…” Yet as I sit 30,000 feet above the earth, moving at some 500
miles per hour, I can’t help but feel a little bit lucky. But, then, the top of clouds always calms me
and makes me ever so slightly reflective.
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