So, how did I end up strapped to an impossibly skinny chair 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by loud talkers and even louder shirts?
I blame my wife.
Our retired friends Tim and Susan have spent the last ten years plying the waterways of Europe each summer aboard their boat, the Adagio. Every fall when they return they regale us with their travels and invite us to join them sometime.
And every year I politely decline.
Not that I've never dreamed of visiting the Continent. And I always felt bad for Kathy because I knew she would do it in a heartbeat (she having an adventurous spirit and my idea of daring being not washing my hands before eating). But even with the generous hospitality of our hosts, getting to Europe ain't cheap, if you haven't noticed. You can't drive. Teleportation hasn't been invented yet. And boats take too long. And sink. Just ask Jack and Rose.
But this year Tim and Sue surprised us with the announcement that they had pretty much sailed everywhere they wanted to sail and were planning to sell their boat sometime this season. If we were ever to join them, it would have to be now.
And that's how I found myself drinking Jim Beam in the clouds.
We had already scheduled a week off in May and had planned to visit one of our favorite places, Asheville, North Carolina (motto: "Where the living is right and the politics ain't."). But we found airfares online that only cost an arm (leaving us both legs for all that walking we'd do) and decided to embrace "The Spirit of Adventure", just like the old guy in "Up".
Of course now that our journey has actually begun, I'm starting to wish that we'd simply attached a gazillion balloons to our chimney.
We chose to fly out of Washington, D.C., because the fares were more reasonable but mostly because you can't actually fly anywhere out of Norfolk. Oh, they SAY, you can, but no matter what it says on your ticket you always end up in Orlando (not that there's anything wrong with that).
Our flight out of Dulles International Airport didn't depart until 5:20 on a Sunday afternoon but knowing I-95 the way we do we decided to leave Virginia Beach at 9:00 AM sharp, which turned out to be a rare moment of lucidity for us. Everything was fine until we reached Fredericksburg and then it was a slow crawl all the way to our Nation's Capitol. We spent another 20 minutes trying to pay the toll on the road to Dulles (six lanes: two EZ Pass, three "Coins Only", ONE with an actual minimum-wage employee collecting actual money. "Coins Only"? For a $2.50 toll?? Who carries TEN quarters around in their pocket, a Pac-Man junkie from 1982?).
We parked in an Economy Lot somewhere west of Wheeling, WV, hopped a free shuttle bus that circled aimlessly for 30 minutes and finally arrived at the Dulles terminal.
Boarding, baggage check-in and TSA Full Body Screening went by uneventfully and with a few minutes to spare we decided to have lunch. And by "lunch" I mean "drinks".
We headed to our gate and hoped to find someplace nearby with a valid liquor license. If you're not familiar with the Dulles terminal, here's how to get where you're going:
1) Ask a friendly Dulles International Airport customer service agent how to get to your gate.
2) Following their directions, walk approximately four miles.
3) Ask another Dulles International Airport customer service agent how to get to your gate because you are lost.
4) Walk another four miles as the first Dulles International Airport customer service agent didn't know "what the HELL she was talking about".
5) Take an airport train from the main concourse to your terminal.
6) Exit train, and proceed (by walking, again) to your gate, which appears to be even further away then when you started. ("Oh, the trains? Yeah, we just take you out to the end of the runway and let you walk back. It's a little inside joke. Plus, walking is good for you, fat ass.")
We finally reached our gate and found a place to get a little something to eat and a whole lot to drink.
I think the reason airport restaurants are so tiny and cramped is so that when you finally get on the plane your seat won't look so Lilliputian.
Let me say that if you're flying overseas, steal your kids' college fund money and pay for Business or First Class. On a United Airlines Boeing 767-300, the seats in Economy Class (aka "Steerage") are approximately the same size as a first grader's desk, only not as comfortable. They don't call it "legroom" because an actual full-grown adult leg will not fit in the available space, unless your knees bend the other way. I believe the airline industry term is "Femur Space".
We were seated in row 32 A and B, window and aisle (good) right between the Incredibly Fussy Baby and the Equally Incredibly Flatulent Man (not so much).
Our scheduled departure time: 5:20.
Our actual departure time: 6:00.
We'd been on board and belted into our infant seats for over an hour and hadn't even made it to the runway, let alone Amsterdam.
I know. Whine, whine, whine.
I'm reminded of comedian Louis C.K.'s take on flying. He admonished us not to complain about the petty annoyances about the miracle of man-made flight.
Sure, I'm trapped in a steel tube for eight hours and I've lost all feeling in my lower extremities, but when I'm finally carried off by trained medical personnel, I'll be I
in a whole OTHER COUNTRY on a WHOLE DIFFERENT CONTINENT.
I should just shut up now.
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