I had the pleasure of attending the Konica Minolta event this week (which we’ll profile in next week’s newsletter). A rash of recent trips got me to thinking about flying adventures. We’ve all had our shares of canceled, rescheduled and delayed flights, prompting headaches and hours of standing in line to reschedule (which, thankfully, has become an easier process in the smartphone age). But from waking up the morning of your flight until when the plane touches down back in your home city, you can usually be assured of having a story or two to relate. Here’s a sampling of a few of the oddities and absurdities to be found.
Rideshare Riot
A year or so ago, I needed to catch a 6 a.m. flight to the West Coast. That meant going through TSA by about 4:30, and it takes an hour to reach Philadelphia International Airport from my house. A shared ride service picked me up at 3:15 after I’d dragged myself out of bed at 2:30. Having become proficient at sleeping on the plane, it didn’t bother me that I was working on only about two or three hours of sleep. My driver, however, would quickly capitalize on the sleep deprivation.
“Which gate?” he asked me as the car pulled away from the pickup locale.
“Mmm? Uh, American Airlines,” I stammered.
“That’s not very helpful. They have like five gates,” the driver admonished.
“Just drop me off at the third gate, then,” I replied, cooly. What a jackass, I thought, though it assured the ride into Philadelphia would mostly be a silent one. I stewed over it a bit, reasoned that I should know exactly what gate I needed anyway, and then forgot about it. But the ride was only beginning to get interesting.
Forty minutes later, traveling south on I-95, the driver let out an unexpected moan. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “Oh no, this isn’t happening.”
I open my eyes to see the driver slowly and repeatedly banging his head against the steering wheel. Did he get a bad news text? Are we being pulled over? I looked behind us…no police car on our tail.
“I am so damn stupid! What the hell was I thinking?” he continued.
“What happened, what’s the matter?” I asked.
“I missed the damn exit for the airport.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Dude, just make a U-turn at the next exit,” I said, which was less than a mile away.
The “delay” added about six minutes to the travel time, but he shut down the trip meter and profusely apologized while continuing to question his own intelligence. Climbing out of his truck, I couldn’t help but think this fellow was wrapped a bit too tight for ride sharing.
Waiting is the Hardest Part
Prior to the days of smartphones and internet access at the airport, waiting on a flight’s departure could be a tedious experience. Back when my kids were mere babies and toddlers, coming home was a magical experience—daddy would bring home gifts, and in return, I would be lavished with affection. After a particularly long trip for me (which was four days), I was giddy with excitement to reunite with my family.
Standing near the gate, clutching bags filled with goodies, I was talking with several people who were discussing their connection plans from Chicago to Philadelphia, and for some, on to Buffalo. It was a friendly and chatty exchange. Turning to a young woman, I enthusiastically asked, “So, is Philly your final destination?”
The woman shot me the deadliest, extended glare. I’d made an airport faux pas, and now this woman must have thought I was some kind of stalker, terrorist or other evil-doer. I looked away and muttered, “Sorry,” but she kept flashing angry/petrified glares as she gathered her things and moved farther away. Gotta admit, I felt like a jerk. I must’ve seemed like a real creep to this woman. She sat in the row opposite mine on the plane, which made the flight a little awkward as well.
However, I had the tables turned on me during the shuttle ride home from the airport. An elderly couple sat next to me on the minibus, and the husband asked me every question under the sun. By the time I was let off, he knew my name, my wife’s and kids’ names and ages, where I’d gone and what I did for a living. Hell, I might have given him the last four digits of my social security number, for all I know.
Reading people is a lost art that was apparently lost on yours truly.
Looong Flights
On one of my first trips to Germany, I missed connection flights on both the arriving and departure flights. The latter missed connection, from Frankfurt to Philly, meant that I would need to spend an additional day in Germany. With the family expecting me and a full work slate awaiting me, this was unacceptable. Fortunately, I was able to rebook a flight to JFK Airport in New York City, which meant I would have to rent a car and make the two and a half hour drive home.
As I took my seat, it seemed I would have a row all to myself, a blessing for a flight that would take upwards of nine hours. Finally, the door was closed, and the three remaining passengers made their way down the aisle. I was home free…
Except the trio stopped and eyed my row.
“We have all three of these seats,” one passenger said to me. After a brief confab between the passengers and flight attendants, it was determined that the airline’s gate attendant erroneously gave their seat to me, so I was being relocated.
The attendant then escorted me to a middle seat in a different row. On the window sat an Italian national woman. The aisle seat was occupied by a 350ish-pound Hasidic Jew. Being a big boy in my own right, this meant a rather snug fit in the middle, and an uncomfortable encroachment on the Italian woman, who spoke little or no English.
Why was the fact that the other passenger was a Hasidic Jew even remarkable? For much of the flight, the gentlemen prayed and chanted aloud, often leaning his head into the seatback. So for eight-plus hours, I stared emotionlessly at my seatback, reminiscent of David Puddy from Seinfeld fame—no conversation, no room, no sleep and definitely no fun.
(Not so) Smooth Landings
One of my earliest flights to Las Vegas involved making a connection in Phoenix. Anyone who has flown over this terrain can appreciate the turbulence caused by the hot air and mountains. The airport approach seems to last forever, and even for the most seasoned flyer, it can be an unpleasant experience.
Sadly, for a 5-year-old seated in the row directly behind me, the approach proved a little too much for his delicate, young constitution.
“Mommy, I don’t feel so good,” the little guy droned.
“We’ll be landing soon, honey,” mom reassured.
“Mommy, my tummy has an owie.”
“We’re almost there, hon.”
“Owie. Owie.”
I can hear the muffled sounds of a bag being opened.
“Owie.”
“It’s OK, honey.”
“Owie.”
“Aim for the bag, sweetheart.”
Let’s just say that the situation resolved itself.
Safe travels to you!
