If You've Got To Go...
Go Delta. They have got it going ON over American Airlines.
Monday, 9.5.22 9:10am
Well, the Delta business class seats makes American look like…an Iquitos hovel. I’m surrounded by posh luxury. A travel pouch was waiting at my seat with a personalized note to me in it (welcome, Ms. Bovee—we’re so glad you’re here!). There’s a quilt folded at my feet. Fancy noise-canceling headphones. A beautiful little pod of luxury.
Everything is perfect…except the plane isn’t moving. They say they’re having issues with their iPad. (That’s not how they put it, but it’s what they mean.) A FIERCELY, even aggressively cheerful woman has been around to welcome us; she’s SO happy we’re here. Do we want the caramelized onion and gouda omelet for breakfast? Why yes. A mimosa? No, thanks; it’s 9 in the morning.
Once we were finally in the air, most people ate their omelet and then reclined their seats to have a nap under their quilts. (Because if you CAN and DON'T, then aren't you mocking all the people crammed ten to a row behind you?) Not Rusty. He said he was too long for the reclining seat, and he wanted to sit up to read anyway. It's nice knowing I can generally find him. For example: Where's Rusty in this picture?
(I was watching a Chris Pine shoot-em-up that featured whole long passages of introspective musing for an action pic; I wasn't particularly impressed, but my, he's pretty.)
I, too, was not reclining. Not from choice. Apparently someone's cloth napkin (I promise it wasn't mine!) had gotten wedged into the reclining seat track, which upset the flight purser tremendously. She and another flight attendant both lay down on the floor of the plane, bent at impossible angles to wrap themselves around the other pods around us, to try to get the napkin out--but no joy. My seat was upright for the duration.
It's not like it was such a hassle; it was a six-hour flight. Not exactly a round-the-world marathon. And it was daytime. No huge worries. But the purser was fraught with unhappiness. She gave me a Delta gift certificate for $150. And then she gave one to Twig. And then she gave one to Rusty, who had no idea what was going on. She could not have been more concerned; it was extremely impressive.
We made it to Atlanta--and through the passport line--and into baggage claim--and through the checked-through baggage dance--and to a counter for seat assignments that told Twig "just do this at the gate," which was annoying, and then through security...we had a few moments before our flight home to pee.
Then there was the flight home. Which you've been through. The plane was full. Twig and I were in the very last row--but damned glad to have gotten onto the flight. Rusty, of course, was miles ahead of us. Every time we got seat assignments, I was on the aisle or the middle. Rusty was ALWAYS on the window side, and always closer to the front of the plane. He didn't care about all his good karma. "I was the first one off the plane, Mom--where you guys been?? Standing behind thousands of people with no sense at all of efficiency or community. Jesus Christ--you couldn't have re-packed your luggage while we were standing here for 15 minutes? You have to do that NOW??
Plus: Crying baby. Because of course there was.
Anyway, now I’m home at last. Phew! If I was more intelligent, I’d have a summary statement for you to complete this travel blog…but my summary statement now is I AM TIRED. Twig is a superb traveling companion and a wonderful sister, and Rusty makes me proud every single day.
And Selma the cat thinks her mother must have been an alpaca, because she hasn't gotten off the weavings since I unpacked them. We are all very, very happy.