Flying Angst

I’m starting this post from the twin-sized bed of my hostel in Paris. I know that I wrote in previous posts that I’d never again make use of hostels when something as grand as couchsurfing is an option, but when your plane lands at 23:20 and you know you won’t get into the enormous city until 1:00, staying in a hostel is probably the best idea.

Note to self: when using Kayak.com to find plane tickets, do more than just immediately pounce on the lowest price. Flight times do factor into the equation, Aimee. Avoid the flights that leave at 5:00 in the morning and the flights that land at 23:20. It is worth the extra twenty bucks to land at a decent hour and to be able to share a home with someone instead of booking a room in a hostel.

Flying used to be something that terrified me. Not the actual in-the-air part, but the navigating-my-way-around-hectic-terminal part.  It has now been reduced to an immense bother. Hazards of flying:

Murmuring in fear as the leering check-in attendant places your bag on the dreaded scales, “please be under 20 kgs, please be under 20 kgs…” Waiting in the mind-numbingly long security lines, a twinge of doubt rising in the back of your mind, “Did I remember to put my knitting scissors and needles in my checked-in bag, or are they in my carry on? Will they think that I’m a terrorist if they find my size two, knit on the round needles? I suppose I could very effectively strangle someone with them…At least my mace is in the checked-in bag. Wait… is my mace is the checked-in bag? *frenzied rummaging just before placing bag on belt* Does toothpaste really count as a liquid? God, I hate it when they search my bag, empty all the contents out onto the belt, and my embarrassingly large supply of lady-time stuff unabashedly plops itself smack dab on top of my suspicious laptop cords for the world to see (I have so many electronics in my carry-on that it is always searched). I’m wearing skintight yoga pants, for Pete’s sake – why must you frisk me when you can clearly see I have nothing dangerous hiding down there?” Silently screaming at the display “where the hell is my gate number?”  Rushing to the gate as soon as its number flashes on the screen, and inevitably finding that a robust line has already formed by the time you and your far-too-heavy carry-on arrive. Disgruntledly, you take your place at the end of the surging line, trying to strategically tiptoe your way further forward whilst making sure no one else has the opportunity to strategically tiptoe past you. Shooting angry glances at single people holding places in line for groups of five-ten. Feeling duly offended when they cut in front of you, trying to forget the fact that you would have done the exact same thing if you’d have a travel buddy with whom to share the burden of holding a place in line. Eyes glazed over with travel stress, but still managing to glare resentfully at the “priority” entrance line. Wondering whether or not it would be worthwhile to kidnap someone’s baby in order to get yourself a place in that line, while desperately hoping that none of those baby people booked their seats next to yours. Sitting yourself down in the narrow 2^nd class seat, wondering whether or not you should stake your claim on the inside armrest as well as the outside armrest, or if you should be generous and give one of them to your EasyJet neighbor. Your EasyJet neighbor seldom gives you this choice, however, as he/she generally confidently commandeers both armrests before you’ve finished thinking through your strategy. So you gingerly place your elbow on the lone armrest you have left, and half-heartedly flip through a few pages of the bad travel magazine located in the seat pocket in front of you (next to the safety instructions that show far less use). The baby in front of you starts to cry, but at least he’s only drowning out the droning voice in front of you, instructing you to remember that the nearest exit may indeed be behind you.

Then the plane starts to roll forward, and pre-boarding angst is quickly forgotten in the joy of takeoff.

This joy ends as soon as the seatbelts sign switches off, the babies recommence their desperate wailing, and the people surrounding you decide they need to pee. The air-conditioner is invariably too cold, and everything on the air-restaurant menu is far too expensive for a humble vagabond. Your knees start to ache, your lower back tarts to cramp, and you’ve got a galling crick in your neck because you didn’t bring one of those neck-braces (who has room for that sort of thing in their carry-on, anyway?). You are just waiting for the flight to be over.

Once your plane has landed (another moment of short-lived exhilaration), you quickly unbuckle, grab your bag out from under the seat in front of you, and join the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the aisle. Nobody is nice enough to let you squeeze in, though, so you remain in a half-standing/half-sitting position for a good ten minutes as you despairingly wait for someone altruistic enough to come along and let you pass in front.

So you’re off the plane. Congratulations. Now you just have to make it through customs, (another enormous line) grab your bag, and find your way out of the airport. Enjoy watching everyone else find his or her luggage and roll out through the exit doors as you stand by the belt, vainly scanning the circling machine for signs of your suitcase. Feel the sensation of complete helplessness when you realize that your luggage may have been lost and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it (if you’re frugal like me and don’t bother with insurance).

After an excruciating wait, you see your distinctive bag pop its precious head through the mouth of the belt, and you joyously rush over, heft it onto the floor, and roll the hell out of the baggage claim.

My flight to Paris was not very good.  In fact, it was pretty miserable. First off, my ticket didn’t take into account the time change (Morocco’s weird about daylight savings), so I had an extra hour to wait in the terminal. Secondly, the gate number for my plane didn’t show up until less than half an hour before scheduled takeoff. Marrakech’s airport is very small, so it took me all of two minutes to join the swelling line at my gate, but not knowing where you’re supposed to be thirty minutes before your plane leaves is rather nerve-wracking. My carry-on bag was extremely heavy, because I had to keep my checked-in bag under 20 kilos. 20 kilos is not a lot for 11 months of travel. Thus, by the time I finally made it to my arbitrary EasyJet seat, my lower back was throbbing angrily. Of course I managed to sit behind a woman with a perpetually unhappy baby, and the Texan couple sitting next to me graciously entertained me with nonstop drawling chatter. The lanky cowboy is asking his girlfriend how she likes her air-vacuumed sandwich and she has yet to open it. He is now going on about how stupid the US is for not using the metric system. While I agree with him on this point, I do dislike it when people simplify solutions so dreadfully, "All it would take is ten years. Ten years, I tell ya. Just start teachin' 'em in school now, and by the time ten years rolls around, the whole of America'd be usin' the metric system. Ten years, I tell ya." 

His girlfriend doesn't seem to be listening. She rubs strong anti-bacterial soap into her hands (it makes my nostrils sting) before taking a hearty bite of her ham and cheese sandwich that is good until the 15th. 

Hello, America. 

I cannot seem to escape crying babies. The seat in front of my rocks slightly (banging into my knees on occasion), and the curly brown hair of an extremely indignant, screaming child rocks in time as his mother coos to him in French. This doesn't seem to work, and the screaming escalates to an impressive volume that I can only hope is unsustainable. The mother tries a new tactic and abruptly hisses, "Ça suffit, maintenant!" 

This works. I am glad. 

Upon arriving at Charles de Gaul Airport at 23:30, we were loaded into buses and taken to the terminal. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to unlock the doors. So all the passengers aboard my flight were forced to wait at least twenty minutes for someone to come and open the doors.

It was amusing to watch all the futile attempts by brawny men to open the doors by sheer force. The security guards were not amused, however, and all civilian attempts quickly ceased.

Once the doors were finally opened, the angry lot of us stampeded through to passport control.

Where there were no attendants. We had to wait another 20 minutes for the passport officers to show up, stamp our passports and say, “Bienvenue a France!”

Bienvenue, my ass. Things operated better in Morocco. Shame on you, France.

So, after forty minutes of waiting in lines and behind locked doors, I made it to the luggage belt. I waited for my moss green bag to roll around the bend, resting my heavy carry-on on the ground and propping my exhausted self up against a sterile airport wall. I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

After 25 minutes of waiting and watching the same piece of  black fluff circle the belt again and again, I joined the line of exasperated fliers at the “lost baggage” window. For the first time during my travels, I had to really contemplate what it would be like to travel without my bag. So much of my life was in that scant 20 kilos, and I had a hard time imagining what things would be like without it. My carry-on contained my camera, laptop, charger, diaries, glasses, and all other vital electronics. My checked-in bag contained all my clothes, SHOES, knitting, toiletries, souvenirs, and tripod.

“They’re only things, Aimee. You can live without them.”

Just then, the angel at the window told me to check to baggage belt again.

I nearly burst into song as I recognized my green bag rolling down the belt. I hefted it onto the floor and felt like I’d been reunited with an old friend. I believe I’ve developed an unhealthy love/hate relationship with this piece of luggage. It’s served me well. 

Things went much better after that. I was able to get a taxi without a hitch (a charming cabbie who played some lovely blues music on the 40 minute drive to my hostel), and checked into my room at about 1:00 in the morning.

I slept very well.