An ode to air travel
This reflection was written entirely from a couple of kilometers in the air; links were inserted in airports upon arrival.
In what are hopefully the final few months of the pandemic, and as I start flying again, I am reminded of the commercial air travel experience. Based on how much I traveled before, I think many would have assumed that I liked taking the plane, but this is decidedly not true. Cramped legs, dry skin, and hangovers were a few afflictions that learned to expect when flying, though I will admit that at least one of these result from my weak willpower. Only if I could remember to apply moisturizer prior to boarding.
About a year ago, many airlines offered “flights to nowhere” for people that missed the experience of traveling: the thought of being trapped in a metal tube, subject to the discomforts earlier stated would have been bad enough, but knowing there with four hundred other people who yearned for the experience would have likely induced air sickness. If I haven’t been clear, I don’t enjoy sitting in planes. I don’t enjoy the overpriced transportation to the airport, the long waits in the security queue, or the airplane food either. I mean, the overall air travel experience isn’t bad, but it was never something I reveled in. I know many more aviation geeks than people who clap when a plane lands but think both represent the long tails of the bell curve.
The general consensus is that air travel sucks. Most people are faced with long lines, mishandled baggage, and small seats. Those who are lucky enough to fly in the front of the plane still contend with the whims of fickle airline schedules and the same air as everyone else aboard. I’ve never had the opportunity to fly private, but I expect even the rich are subject to weather and an increasing scrutiny on the environmental impact of flying. While I didn’t enjoy the process of flying itself, I indulged whenever my budget would allow, traveling, vacationing, and visiting my increasingly scattered circle of friends, inadvertently developing a sort of rhythm for each trip that I’d take.
One of my friends told me that he first decided he wanted to be a management consultant after watching George Clooney’s airport montage in Up in the Air. I think he might have missed the point of the movie, but I’ve been thinking a lot of that sequence in the past few weeks. Despite the shortcomings of air travel, I now see the appeal of the scene, and it lies not within having an American Airlines ConciergeKey, but the familiarity and the little things.
My routine commences from the night before. The shortest trips I take are twelve hours between flights, and the length of the trip is reflected in the size of my baggage, but packing never happens earlier than the night before. Travel toiletries. Water bottle. Spare underwear and socks. Chargers and cables. Earbuds. Swim trunks. Thin runners. Towel. They all have spots in all my carry-on bags, from smallest to largest. The other stuff is a bit harder, sometimes I take a moment to decide if I should bring another pair of shoes or to figure out how to pack the gaudy souvenirs I picked up. Check in online, phone in left pocket, wallet in right pocket, and I’m off to the races.
Sometimes, they’re quite literally races. A rally to the bus station in my parents’ car, only to miss the earlier bus and have to take the one half an hour later, or a sprint to the train station after the alarm went off twenty minutes later than anticipated, boarding the carriage closest to the security line. I try not to run at the airport, but engage in my signature brisk trot, staring straight ahead and body leaning forward ten degrees from perpendicular to the ground.
Other trips are walks in the park, and I slowly saunter past the check-in counters, leisurely winding around the security stanchions, smartly snapping my electronics into the trays, and arriving early enough for a drink in the executive lounges. Unfortunately, I don’t have access to the lounges, so I settle for acquainting myself with skincare products and perfumes in the duty-free stores on international flights. Another frequent flyer friend once told me that if I made a hundred-percent of my flights, I was arriving too early for all of them. I think about this a lot when waiting for delayed flights.
As it gets closer to my boarding time, I’ll make my way to the gate, watching eager passengers herded this way and that as they fight to secure that sweet overhead storage space. I don’t usually wait in line; the chair in the waiting area is almost always more spacious than the one in the plane. When I finally do step up to the counter, one thing I haven’t mastered is simultaneously presenting identification and my electronic ticket to the gate agent while one hand is clutching a carry-on, usually a duffel. I always try to hang onto my bag with my left hand while fumbling with my phone and passport with my right, never quite managing. But when I get the hang of it, it’ll be impressive.
The next part varies a lot depending on the airport and airplane: Is there a bridge or do passengers board outside? Is there a shuttle to take passengers across the tarmac or is the plane parked right outside the doors? Is the bridge well-ventilated with large windows or is it a suffocating dark tunnel? Is it a wide-body, a narrow-body, or a turboprop? These differences aren’t trivial, but matter little to me while I amble forward, enjoying my last bit of fresh air.
The flight attendant greets me as I enter, and most of the time I turn right to find my seat. I’ve never quite stopped being thrilled on the few occasions where I’m lucky enough to turn left instead. Despite what one of my friends have said about being treated humanely at the front of a wide-body plane (implying that coach seats are somehow animalistic), the experience isn’t that different. Sure, there’s extra legroom, less people and better food, so much as you can have any of those things while being stuck in a tin can with wings whose ability to operate depends on how many people can be crammed into it.
There are only three things I ever do on a plane: sleep, write, and read.
Falling asleep on a plane isn’t easy unless I’m very tired or very drunk, both distinct possibilities while flying. On the way back from a weekend trip, or on a early morning domestic flight, I find that I can fall asleep as the plane is taking off, and wake to the ding of the seatbelt lights blinking off. On an evening flight to Europe, I’m not usually ready to sleep, but I know that I need it. It’s good that they start with meal service, because the alcohol served helps and seems to be twice as effective in the air for some reason. That way, when I arrive in Paris I’m not exhausted, only hung over.
When I don’t sleep and have my laptop with me, I write. I’ve never bought wifi in the air, and have never been as productive while I’m up there. Nothing to sap my attention, but perhaps more importantly nothing to second-guess my writing with. No thesaurus.com, no Purdue Owl, no Wikipedia rabbit holes. No research, just feelings and ideas. There’s something satisfying about pouring words onto pages without a second thought. Plus, people sitting next to me and walking around me probably think I’m pretty cool. Probably.
And when I don’t need to sleep and can’t find the willpower to write, I read. My physical surroundings melt away as I drift into the world of the book, transporting me into a fantasy as the plane brings me to my destination. I rarely watch the movies in planes anymore; they have some good ones, but I’d rather pay due respect and watch them on a TV at least. A book on a plane is the same as a book on my couch. Better yet, a plane is also distraction free, and perhaps the best place to do it. Flight attendants bring water and food when you need it, the loud hum of the engines drowning out all else.
While doing either of those three, or some combination, I generally arrive at my destination before I’m aware. Despite the air, the seats, and the sound, I often find myself wishing that the flight was in fact a bit longer. Longer so I could finish my dream, paragraph, or chapter. Often, the wait for the bridge to connect and the people ahead of me to leave provides me with the reprieve I need to shake off that feeling, and deplane.
Arriving is a magical sensation. No matter how long the flight, it always feels like cheating a little. I didn’t walk or drive, I flew, and I’m here without feeling the ground race by me or the churn of waves. Whether it was across an ocean, over the equator, or just to another city in this vast country I call home, things feel distinctly different. The language on the signage. The way people are dressed. The air even feels different: the cool ocean breeze of Vancouver versus the smoggy stickiness of Shanghai versus the eau de urine-tabac of Paris.
And normally, this passes without a second thought from me. After a hiatus however, these little idiosyncrasies welcome me; timidly at first, as my trips are still infrequent, but hopefully more warmly in a few months. And I’ve begun to notice them as well, notice the little sparks of joy I get when I know what to expect, and the little things that are available to me only when I’m flying. It’s perhaps too early to say whether I truly enjoy flying or not, I may have simply missed the comfort of the routine. But the gradual resumption of flying in past few weeks has made me appreciate the small things. I hope I can stay positive about flying when it is indeed time to fly again.
