Here I am sitting on an aeroplane en route to Los Angeles thinking about blogging. How twenty-first century of me. How technological! How obsessive! Around me my fellow passengers are fast asleep, snuggled under Emirates Airlines blankets, beige Emirates socks on their sleeping feet, beige Emirates sleeping masks covering their eyes, while a few wakeful souls are engrossed in their personal tvs. Me? I am working on my iPad 2, revelling in the knowledge that on my return journey I shall be gloating over the superior screen of my new iPad 3, having already sold my current tablet to my future son-in-law.
But I digress. Back to this obsession with work. Having worked out how many of the fifteen hours on this flight I can afford to sleep, I have allocated a certain number of hours to leisure - yay! Reading for fun! - and others to work. So here I sit, emailing, blogging, and working on a few other tasks, instead of lying back and watching tv like the rest of the captive passengers. The REAL frustration, though, is not being allowed to look out of the window in case the sudden bright light wakes the sleeping sloths around me. This is especially rough on me because we have flown over Iran and Russia, and the most I can do is lift the window blind a tiny sliver of the way up, take a quick peek, and then shut it before one of the truly lovely attendants comes and reprimands me in one of the ten languages they speak on Emirates Airlines. It is too late to pretend I speak only Afrikaans or isiZulu, neither of which is spoken on this flight. I have already conversed fluently in English, so that won't fly. (What an apt metaphor nine hours into a fifteen hour flight.)
As it is, I was assigned this window seat purely by the mercies of God. As you will read further on, I have a need to make frequent trips to the lavatories conveniently situated at the front and rear of cabins, so an aisle seat is not only a preference, but a necessity if I want to prevent my flying companion from going insane. On this flight the sweet young man in the window seat next to me observed that as this was a very empty cabin, he could ask to be seated somewhere else, so that he had the advantage of two seats to himself. As I had just spilt apple juice all over my seat, the attendant suggested I might like to take up the vacated window seat, which I accepted with alacrity. So here I am, blessed with a window seat, but not allowed to look out of it.
Flying is a strange experience in many ways. I am blessed to fly business class, while my travelling companions, usually Tasha or Crystal, fly back in cattle class. I travel as an assisted passenger because of back issues, which invariably means a wheelchair. This is because that is how the airlines do it. I am perfectly capable of walking, but not the distance required to traverse many of the international airports I travel through, nor of hefting my hand luggage onto X-ray scanners or overhead compartments without serious repercussions, so, to the airlines, that means you require a wheelchair. The upside of that is that they board you first, and let your lowly economy class travel companion/pack mule board with you, lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, and generally settle you, before going back into economy class. It also means that you are whisked past long queues at immigration and passport control, through customs, and out into the waiting area. At this point I exit the wheelchair and walk off normally, feeling a complete and utter fraud. So extreme is my guilt at being pushed around in a wheelchair that I adopt a fairly pathetic facial tic, an exaggerated slow walk, and the sense of a fraud alarm ringing loudly every time I get out of my seat to use the loo.
Aeroplane lavatories are worth a blog of their own. I am intimately acquainted with them because, along with other mild afflictions, I have what a doctor described to me as "a petite bladder." This was the first time I realised bladders came in sizes! This was after she told me I had a large, fatty liver. I don't know if my petite bladder was a consolation prize, but on journeys like this I could do with a camel sized bladder. With every trip to the loo I am convinced the attendants view me with increasing alarm. My response is to wince as I pass them, as if a sore back is the reason I need to visit the lavatory four times more than any other passenger. I make up for these frequent visits by cleaning the sinks obsessively. It is almost as if should they check on them after one of my visits to see if I have stashed an explosive device, they will find a pristine basin. I have even been known to use a bunch of paper towels to clean the floor. On one flight on British Air a matronly attendant stopped me from going into the lavatory in bare feet. "No, dear," she said warningly. "ALWAYS wear socks or shoes. Some of our gentlemen don't aim straight." I thanked her for that tip, which is why, even as I type, I , too, am wearing beige Emirates socks.
Another compulsion about air travel I have is to examine with great enthusiasm the little free bags of goodies they give you to make your trip more comfortable. I rate airlines by the "comfort bags." I wonder if other passengers are as excited as I am to unzip their bag and discover the treasures inside. Emirates score well because their toiletry of choice is Bulgari, and they give men and women different bags. My fingers are itching to grab a discarded man bag and investigate. But then again I am one of those people who buy a magazine for the tiny free gift on offer. As they say, there is one born every minute.
And now I am tired and want to put on my mask, put off my light, and sleep. But the crew are getting ready to serve a meal, the other passengers are waking up refreshed and ready to be noisy and open their blinds, and I have seriously miscalculated. Anyway, that is what it seems like. But I have discovered that many many many times I have planned my steps, only to have God intervene with His timetable and His plan, and it has turned out way better than I could have ever imagined. You too? I thought so! So, from one fellow traveller to another, God bless and I will chat to you next month.
Fiona
POSTSCRIPT: I arose from my dimly lit, blanketed seat for yet another trip to the loo, to discover that while I had slept, my neck pillow had burst, spewing tiny styrofoam balls all over my blanket and clothes. As I choose to travel long distances in tracksuits for comfort sake, I found myself literally covered in white bobbles. I made this momentous discovery in the minuscule confines of the back lavatory, whereupon I tried unsuccessfully to brush them off. Styrofoam, static, and tracksuit material made this an impossible task. So, after already having raised suspicion by my frequent toilet breaks, I had to emerge, like some unidentified species, to ask the nearest flight attendant to help get them off me. Bless her, she did her best, but they are still stubbornly clinging to every part of my clothes and hair, and Los Angeles immigration looms. American immigration officials are notorious for being devoid of a sense of humour, so the sight of a styrofoam ball monster is not an option. Tasha is in for a surprise when the flight is over and she comes through to collect me. She is going to need a wet face cloth and lots of patience.
It occurs to me that God has an enormous sense of humour, and even though He had nothing to do with my burst pillow, He DID wait in anticipation to see if I would laugh with Him, or lose every bit of fruit I have spent years acquiring. I am thankful to say that the only thing affected was vanity! And just when I thought I didn't have any left. Ok Lord. Point taken!
But I digress. Back to this obsession with work. Having worked out how many of the fifteen hours on this flight I can afford to sleep, I have allocated a certain number of hours to leisure - yay! Reading for fun! - and others to work. So here I sit, emailing, blogging, and working on a few other tasks, instead of lying back and watching tv like the rest of the captive passengers. The REAL frustration, though, is not being allowed to look out of the window in case the sudden bright light wakes the sleeping sloths around me. This is especially rough on me because we have flown over Iran and Russia, and the most I can do is lift the window blind a tiny sliver of the way up, take a quick peek, and then shut it before one of the truly lovely attendants comes and reprimands me in one of the ten languages they speak on Emirates Airlines. It is too late to pretend I speak only Afrikaans or isiZulu, neither of which is spoken on this flight. I have already conversed fluently in English, so that won't fly. (What an apt metaphor nine hours into a fifteen hour flight.)
As it is, I was assigned this window seat purely by the mercies of God. As you will read further on, I have a need to make frequent trips to the lavatories conveniently situated at the front and rear of cabins, so an aisle seat is not only a preference, but a necessity if I want to prevent my flying companion from going insane. On this flight the sweet young man in the window seat next to me observed that as this was a very empty cabin, he could ask to be seated somewhere else, so that he had the advantage of two seats to himself. As I had just spilt apple juice all over my seat, the attendant suggested I might like to take up the vacated window seat, which I accepted with alacrity. So here I am, blessed with a window seat, but not allowed to look out of it.
Flying is a strange experience in many ways. I am blessed to fly business class, while my travelling companions, usually Tasha or Crystal, fly back in cattle class. I travel as an assisted passenger because of back issues, which invariably means a wheelchair. This is because that is how the airlines do it. I am perfectly capable of walking, but not the distance required to traverse many of the international airports I travel through, nor of hefting my hand luggage onto X-ray scanners or overhead compartments without serious repercussions, so, to the airlines, that means you require a wheelchair. The upside of that is that they board you first, and let your lowly economy class travel companion/pack mule board with you, lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, and generally settle you, before going back into economy class. It also means that you are whisked past long queues at immigration and passport control, through customs, and out into the waiting area. At this point I exit the wheelchair and walk off normally, feeling a complete and utter fraud. So extreme is my guilt at being pushed around in a wheelchair that I adopt a fairly pathetic facial tic, an exaggerated slow walk, and the sense of a fraud alarm ringing loudly every time I get out of my seat to use the loo.
Aeroplane lavatories are worth a blog of their own. I am intimately acquainted with them because, along with other mild afflictions, I have what a doctor described to me as "a petite bladder." This was the first time I realised bladders came in sizes! This was after she told me I had a large, fatty liver. I don't know if my petite bladder was a consolation prize, but on journeys like this I could do with a camel sized bladder. With every trip to the loo I am convinced the attendants view me with increasing alarm. My response is to wince as I pass them, as if a sore back is the reason I need to visit the lavatory four times more than any other passenger. I make up for these frequent visits by cleaning the sinks obsessively. It is almost as if should they check on them after one of my visits to see if I have stashed an explosive device, they will find a pristine basin. I have even been known to use a bunch of paper towels to clean the floor. On one flight on British Air a matronly attendant stopped me from going into the lavatory in bare feet. "No, dear," she said warningly. "ALWAYS wear socks or shoes. Some of our gentlemen don't aim straight." I thanked her for that tip, which is why, even as I type, I , too, am wearing beige Emirates socks.
Another compulsion about air travel I have is to examine with great enthusiasm the little free bags of goodies they give you to make your trip more comfortable. I rate airlines by the "comfort bags." I wonder if other passengers are as excited as I am to unzip their bag and discover the treasures inside. Emirates score well because their toiletry of choice is Bulgari, and they give men and women different bags. My fingers are itching to grab a discarded man bag and investigate. But then again I am one of those people who buy a magazine for the tiny free gift on offer. As they say, there is one born every minute.
And now I am tired and want to put on my mask, put off my light, and sleep. But the crew are getting ready to serve a meal, the other passengers are waking up refreshed and ready to be noisy and open their blinds, and I have seriously miscalculated. Anyway, that is what it seems like. But I have discovered that many many many times I have planned my steps, only to have God intervene with His timetable and His plan, and it has turned out way better than I could have ever imagined. You too? I thought so! So, from one fellow traveller to another, God bless and I will chat to you next month.
Fiona
POSTSCRIPT: I arose from my dimly lit, blanketed seat for yet another trip to the loo, to discover that while I had slept, my neck pillow had burst, spewing tiny styrofoam balls all over my blanket and clothes. As I choose to travel long distances in tracksuits for comfort sake, I found myself literally covered in white bobbles. I made this momentous discovery in the minuscule confines of the back lavatory, whereupon I tried unsuccessfully to brush them off. Styrofoam, static, and tracksuit material made this an impossible task. So, after already having raised suspicion by my frequent toilet breaks, I had to emerge, like some unidentified species, to ask the nearest flight attendant to help get them off me. Bless her, she did her best, but they are still stubbornly clinging to every part of my clothes and hair, and Los Angeles immigration looms. American immigration officials are notorious for being devoid of a sense of humour, so the sight of a styrofoam ball monster is not an option. Tasha is in for a surprise when the flight is over and she comes through to collect me. She is going to need a wet face cloth and lots of patience.
It occurs to me that God has an enormous sense of humour, and even though He had nothing to do with my burst pillow, He DID wait in anticipation to see if I would laugh with Him, or lose every bit of fruit I have spent years acquiring. I am thankful to say that the only thing affected was vanity! And just when I thought I didn't have any left. Ok Lord. Point taken!
Comments
Post a Comment