19 December 2006

buzzy little thoughts

(Apologies in advance for the ALLCAPS that happens later in this post. I couldn't help it. I'm surprised, honestly, that there is not more air rage in this country.)

I flew from New York to Michigan this morning and spent far too much time thinking hazily through tiredness about things that I realize, now that I've had some coffee, did not actually make that much sense. For example, in the haze of early morning, I was fascinated by the squares of highway and houses over the eastern part of the US. Yeah, we don't know.

I took the A train the length of its interminableness out to Howard Beach, and when it ascended out of the earth somewhere out at the far edge of Brooklyn, the first building I saw glowed so brightly orange from the rising sun that I thought for a moment that it was on fire. Far away on a hill, another building was doing the same.

At JFK, it turns out that my airline actually did leave from Terminal Four, it's just that of the roughly 100 check-in lines, my airline had two. Unmarked. And with signs only for international flights. So I wandered and asked for about thirty minutes before I found them.

Every time I fly inside the US, I promise myself I will never fly ___ airline again, whatever the airline happens to be that time. My airline today (I will not mention names, but I connected in Detroit, which should tell you everything you need to know) somehow could not manage to post the gate number on the departure list. Since Terminal Four at JFK has A gates and B gates at opposite ends of the terminal and with separate security lines, it is somewhat vital to know your gate number. I ran helterskelter between the two ends frantically asking people which gate the flight was at and no one knew until finally, 25 minutes before my flight was to take off ("YOU MUST BE ON BOARD THE AIRCRAFT 15 MINUTES PRIOR TO SCHEDULED DEPARTURE"), a security man finally knew. So I got in the line at the A gates and waited for a while and then a man came and started making the "If you are on the __ flight and you don't come to the front of the line right now you will get left" announcement and I had to sheepishly walk past about fifty people and get in line behind the WORLD'S SLOWEST SECURITY PASSER-THROUGHER. I mean, this guy, first of all, could not take his shoes off in fewer than five minutes. Then, he apparently could not push his bins into the machine but stood blankly next to them until finally I just pushed on mine until his went in. THEN, he had CANNED FRUIT in his carry-on luggage. CANNED FRUIT! When there are signs every few feet saying that you cannot bring food or drinks on the plane. THEN, he had somehow, between taking it off and going through the scanner, lost his fanny pack. I mean, the mere use of the word fanny pack illuminates a lot. Anyway, I finally grabbed my stuff out from under the machine (since he wouldn't move down and the TSA people had disappeared with his canned fruit) and sprinted for the gate. I don't think he made the flight. Not that the flight left on time, because of course an international flight was delayed and the luggage made it but not the people so they had to do that thing where they take off every piece of luggage and check to see whose it is so they can take off the bags of the people who are not there.

Okay, and here's the thing: I don't feel safe flying in this country. It's not the security measures. Clearly they are ridiculous and ineffective and nonsensical and don't actually keep us safe, but it's not that. It's the planes. I mean, how can I feel confident about riding in a plane that looks like no one has repaired it since I was born? How? There is peeling velcro and the bathroom lights don't come on and the seats are frayed and the windows don't look all the way sealed anymore. How do I know they are doing a better job with the mechanical parts? Somehow the African airlines I've flown on recently have had newer, prettier, shinier planes. I mean, Kenya Airways, people. It has nice new seats, there are no strange noises when the wheels go up, and the food is good. What's wrong with this picture, when I feel safer connecting through Nairobi than Detroit, despite the fact that there is only patchy air traffic control over Africa?

Now I am in Michigan and noticing once again the Michigan accent. The girl at the coffee counter just asked me if I had been "rang up." T said, when I called her in horror, that this is not Michigan but merely bad English. Point taken. But I hear the twang and I wonder if I used to talk like this? I've clearly turned into an East Coast snob. And I don't even like the East Coast. {sigh}

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