Pre-flight: We got to the airport at 8PM for our 10PM flight. A family of four, with one medium suitcase, and two small duffel bags, which isn’t that bad, given that we’re going to be gone for a week. (And yes, each of us had a carry-on bag, but still, it’s not that bad.)
We also have: 4 laptops, 1 iPad, 4 or 5 iPhones, and 2 iPods.
I can’t really explain to you why we have so many pieces of electronica. I’d say that all the gear is breeding at night, after we go to sleep, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.
There’s no more hiding the truth: resistance is futile. We have been assimilated: we are the iPeople.
In-flight: News flash: the pods in front are way better than the other seats on the plane. I have a pod all to myself, with my own TV and a seat that spreads out into a bed. A lovely be-hatted flight attendant handed me a glass of champagne when I sat down, and there were pillows and blankets stacked neatly in my chair. In steerage coach behind me, a baby started to wail. And as if in response, a baby on the other side of the plane began to howl, and then a third, in a kind of Gregorian chant of misery.
Sitting up here, separated from the hordes only by a thin cotton curtain (really, it should be something more…sound-proof, don’t you think?), it’s easy to feel indignant: that baby is ruining my champagne enjoyment. Superiority and a sense of privilege come with the price of my ticket, I guess, although of course we didn’t pay for our tickets; they came with Husband’s job. It’s seductive, this pampering (which, of course, ain’t nothing compared to what happens in the pods even in front of these pods); I imagine that if you always traveled in the pamper-pods, it would be easy to believe that, in fact, you really are better than those people jammed cheek by jowl by butt-cheek in the rows at the back.
The difference between ten and six and forty-something: Caleb and I looked through the movie guide; he chose the show he wanted to watch when the inflight videos started; he drank his apple juice and fiddled with his seat buttons. Then he put his head on my lap and fell hard asleep. Didn’t budge when I took off his shoes, slid his chair down into full recline, unzipped his sweatshirt, and rolled him onto his seat, off my arm.
The ten-year old, on the other hand, has moved his seat up and down several times, played several video games, read a few pages in his book, watched the beginning of a movie, and then ordered two croissants, a chocolate cookie, and a sprite. His grin could light the plane from here to North Africa and given the sugar he’s ingested in the last three hours, I’m not sure he will ever sleep again.
And me? I’m on my second glass of champagne, thank you very much; the baby chorus has died down, and frankly I could use a massage but they don’t seem to be offering those on this flight. Unbelievable. Thirteen hours and no massage? I am definitely writing a letter of complaint.
