It seems the Wright brothers Orville and Wilbur were not even born when I flew the first time. It was around 1963; my virgin flight was from Copenhagen to Aarhus (Denmark) to visit my mother. As far as I recall it was a DC 3 two-engine prop. Back then passengers dressed up to look the rich and mature part of: “I am flying and you are not – na na na na na na”. I was right there with them in my only suit, tie and spit-polished shoes. I showered more than once that morning and finished with a bottle of Old Spice (that’s an after-shave, not a 20-year old bourbon). I was as ready as could be and smelled pretty damn good – miles away. I considered the realistic possibility of crashing, but felt somewhat okay since I was at least dressed appropriately for that open casket thing. “So very young – but he sure smelled good…” I finished my pre-flight-check-up in the bathroom mirror, airplane ticket in hand. “You daredevil you…” I said, smiling that charming crooked smile of mine and finished by the not so charming scream: “OH MY GOD – I DON’T WANNA DIE…”
I have survived hundreds of take-offs and landings since then. I have experienced flying as one of only six passengers on a Boeing 747 from Copenhagen to London, a plane built for 350 to 400 travelers; the service was superb and we partied all the way in First Class (I even saw one of the stewardesses dancing with the automatic pilot - really). I have never missed a departure and have never experienced cancelled flights – and no, I haven’t crashed either, as far as I remember. All in all Peter has done well in the air… Knock on wood, if you can find any at 32,000 feet.
It seems a long time ago that the glamour and privilege of flying was for the few. It was when flight attendants were stewardesses, the service topnotch, gourmet food and lots of fine wines and cocktails – and you could smoke if you wanted to; but that has all changed. The tickets are less now, but we pay for everything else: luggage, food, drinks, blankets and pillows. I hear we’ll soon be charged for visits to the lavatory (that's the bathroom on a plane - whatever...). Can you imagine running out of quarters with over six hours left before we reach Tokyo? That's where bladder-control comes in handy.
Today a lot more people travel by air and I like that – really; makes the world a lot smaller. Compared, I flew more luxuriously back then, but I’m fine with the progression (on most levels). Today I get the feeling that I'm flying on an old school bus with wings, but not as much leg-room. I normally stay busy reading, listening to my iPod or write. Unfortunately I can't sleep on planes, but that's okay too. For the most people chat a bit and then we settle in and eventually we reach our destination. By the way, did you know that sitting next to a crying baby makes the flying-time four times longer? It's a mathematical phenomena, but true. If you don't believe me, next time you check in, ask for a seat next to a colic baby. You’ll soon acknowledge the vast difference between scheduled flying-time and actual flying-time.
Here’s something you should try, just for fun and to pass time. You have just boarded a plane for Chicago. You smile at your row-mate and sit down. Just before the plane leaves the gate, you turn and ask her what she is going to do when she gets to New York. The reactions are priceless. That first: “but isn’t this plane going to Chicago?” is for the wallet. Unfortunately only very few get up and race towards the exit where the flight attendants have a hard time convincing the confused passenger that we are heading for Chicago… (Never happened, but it would be fun if it did; don’t you think?) Another fun thing: ask everybody around you if you can have their barf bags... That always put the fear in their eyes and quick looks for empty seats away from you - and that's not bad at all, is it? An easy and fun way to get more room for those elbows - true story.
Do I worry about that crashing thing? I do to some extent, but also realize it’s totally out of my control. I can only hope the pilot-person ain’t drunk, has suicidal tendencies or is in the middle of losing a nasty divorce. I have only been frightened once. We were in a tiny one engine four-seater plane. The rain, lightning and thunder was horrendous and we were supposed to land on a small island in the middle of a roaring ocean on a narrow landing strip with tall trees lining both sides, like gutter-bumpers at your local bowling alley; just in case? The pilot had at first refused to fly anywhere that day due to the weather, but we insisted and by communicating a bit more money we took off. The worst decision I have ever been part of. The 2 hour flight to reach the island was the very worst flying experience ever; death would have been a merciful ending, really. Trying to land this little piece of plane on a very wet and gust-windy stamp-like strip was horrific. It took three tries before we barely made it. I think the pilot is still pissed at us, though it is over 40 years ago. I can still hear him scream hysterically so many times during the flight: I'm no *&%^&^%$# Kamikaze bloody pilot (but in Danish…) Go figure.
Tomorrow I’ll be on a plane to Denmark. I'm visiting my sweet mother and then some good friends in Copenhagen. I kind of dread the flight, but as always it will eventually get me there; most of the time faster than dreaded. And yes I’ll be flying to Chicago first and just for you I will use that: “what are you going to do when you get to New York?” line. I’ll let you know how it goes. I'm also bringing my collection of barf bags, though I have never used one, really; but they might give me more elbow room - don't you think?
See you next Monday – from Denmark...
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