Window on the World

It seems my window on the world is looking a lot like this lately:

I'm sandwiched on an Air Canada Airbus 319 en route to Montreal on the first of four business trips I am taking over the next six to eight weeks. I am one of approximately 100 coach class passengers trying to stake out precious cubic inches of personal space as my own. The woman in seat 18A has already exercised her right to lean her chair back into me and evoke claustrophobia I didn’t know I possessed. The man behind me in 20A can’t sit still and has ensured any attempt at a nap will be thwarted by him kicking my chair or fidgeting. And while the ladies sitting next to me in seats 19 B and C seem lovely, they’re both asleep right now and currently blocking my access to the restrooms. This will be an issue in approximately 20 minutes when my bladder declares nap time is officially over. Maybe Mr. 20A can kick their chairs for me as a wake-up call.

Ah, coach. Gotta love it. At least the baby stopped screaming (for now).

I suppose I should count my blessings. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t get over this feeling of doom about my departure last night. I called the airline and learned my flight was indeed experiencing mechanical issues, and at that time had been delayed by 3.5 hours. The delay wasn’t as much an issue as me missing my connecting flight in Minneapolis.

One call to our corporate travel agent got me on the previously unavailable and ONLY nonstop flight from SFO to Montreal. Getting a seat on this flight means not having to change flights and do the dance I’ve entitled the “connecting flight Extreme Cha-Cha.” This dance is the one where your arriving flight lands at the gate furthest from the gate of your connecting flight. The journey is a well-choreographed dance through terminals, dodging slow walkers, moms with strollers, old people, and the general oblivious population while towing a 10-pound laptop, paperwork, and all the other superfluous crap I couldn’t get into my checked luggage all within a tight timeframe. In the last six months I’ve perfected my cha-cha to the point that I’m ready for a spin on Dancing With the Stars.

Such is the life of the business traveler. I was randomly selected to go through the extra invasive TSA search this morning, which included getting a blow job by the explosive detecting machine. For those who haven’t experienced this yet, you walk into a booth and are blasted with a couple air blasts (you dirty birds who thought I was talking about something else need to get your head out of the gutter). While this is done in the name of Homeland Security, I can’t help but suspect it is the universe continuing its campaign against me ever having a good hair day. As an added bonus, I also received the cheesiest pick-up line ever from the security officer tasked with examining my bags for explosive residue (funny since the only thing about to explode at this time was my patience). He asked if I knew why I was being randomly searched, and when I answered no he told me the TSA was conducting a special screening for adults ages 22-27 only. Then he winked and smiled.

Smooth buddy. And sure, I can be 22 to 27 years old today. No problem. Why stop lying about my age today?

Economy passengers get no respect. No leg room. Bad movies (Norbit? C’mon! Are you kidding me?) Bad food (I just purchased cashews and carrot sticks – two of the only semi-healthy food options outside of Pringles and Cup of Noodles. My considerate neighbor in 19C opted for tuna fish and crackers, because everyone enjoys a smelly fish stench in tight quarters. And it truly compliments the fumes from the guy who bathed in his cologne this morning sitting in an undetermined seat around me).

Ironically, for a woman who loves to travel and thinks travel is one of the best parts of her job, I hate flying. The fear is truly irrational – I know flying is safer than driving, but the idea of dropping 30,000 feet out of the sky and dying in a huge fireball makes me grip my seat handles with every take-off and bout of turbulence. The fear hasn’t stopped me from boarding a plane yet, but I have rituals I must go through before take-off that are sanity self-preservation tools. This includes being really nice to the flight crew and studying them for any signs of fear, locating the nearest exit (easy since I appear to be destined to always sit over the wing), and saying a little prayer that typically includes the words, “I’m not ready to die today.”

Beyond the fear, crammed quarters, and funny smells, I love the idea of getting on a plane in San Francisco and a few hours later, arriving in a foreign country. I am told by many that this will get old and tiring in time. Until then I’m still enamored by the unintentional comedy that is business travel and enjoying my window on the world, even if it looks a lot like an airplane wing these days.