I had talked my way into first class standby on the way out on Kenya Airways in May. I slept in this badass lazy boy chair that reclined into a flat bed with a canopy over me head. So last night I tried to do it again.
"Is there any room on First Class standby?"
"Oh no. This plan has much room. No one is on standby."
"Yeah, but can I be on standby to be in First Class?"
"Oh no. Here is your boarding pass."
"They let me do that on the way out. It was great."
"Have a good flight, Mr. Ness."
"You know, it's this kind of snottybritches attitude that made the president not want to come here next week." Actually I just grumbled to myself like Fred Flintstone leaving Mr. Sleight's office.
Once the plane was flying level, the stewardesses sashay down the aisles misting everyone with this nasty antiseptic stuff. I didn't see the spray cans, but I picture it having a drawing of Africa with a big circle-and-slash over it. The smell starts out sweet as the stewardesses walk past, but then gets steadily worse as the fumes make their way throgh your nose and onto your toungue. It tastes like your mouth did after you went to the dentist from the 80's--after you gargled that translucent nasty dusty-tasting stuff.
At various points in the ride I looked out the window and thought grand thought monosyllabic thoughts: Wow, this plane is flying really high. Man, I'm flying far. I wonder what it's like out on that wing: looks peaceful. Jeez, this whole flying-across-a-hemisphere-and-an-ocean thing is kind of mind boggling if you stare out the window and think about it. Planes are powerful. Planes are cool. We should appreciate planes more.
But we can't, 'cause air terminals are frigging miserable. Folks in London kelt backing into me, bumping into me, doing the old guy shuffle down the middle of the moving sidewalk so I couldn't get past. I'm going back to another airport now: La Guardia to Columbus. The blog may die for a week or so after this. If so, try not to blow up any digits on the Fourth.
