Flying Solo

Minneapolis International Airport: 7:20 am

Part 1: First Leg

It has always been one of my favorite things to be in airports by myself (though I love being picked up at one, the whole interior space is something I tend to enjoy most while ensconced in solitude.  This carries over to the flights, as well: periodically, a person will engage me in conversation, and this can be pleasant, but generally it is me and my antihistamines (to both relax and prevent allergic reactions to my neighbors)

My zen (and yen) for travelling alone in this manner was tested this morning, however.

Upon boarding my PDX-MNP flight, it became readily apparent that fully half the passengers were 12 or under.  One of the elder ones looked a bit like a man named Levin that I used to know, but by this point I had taken the necessary cocktail for plane-sleep, so my cognitive abilities were not at their best (this dose would knock me out toot sweet were I near a bed).

As you know, airplane seats are nothing like beds, and I discovered that kids today have a great deal harder time adjusting than I had in my youth.* Young Jacob¹ had chosen the aisle seat so that he could sit next to his 8 siblings,² which rather pleased me because I figured leaning on the wondow would facilitate the napping project started by the allergy pill.

In front of me was a woman with two daughters, verbally abusing them. A passenger stood up for the pair of 4 year olds, and was rebuffed with language even I won’t print here (and I am a girl of few compuctions). There were also no fewer than 3 infants on the plane.

  

Why it seems logical to put young flyers in the most physically stressful situation, the red-eye, is beyond me. The red-eye is for academics, college students, and honeymooners. That is, the people who aren’t living on normal sleep patterns to begin with.

In any case, Jacob took to alternately laying his head on me for comfort, which was fine, and then kicking me heartily at the first sign of neck pain.  Eventually, however, we found our happy medium, Jacob and I, and slept (fitfully) for much of the flight (which was, mind you, a mere 3 hours).

Upon being told of our descent, and crankily acknowledged that my sleep was not my own to govern and looked to the window. I caught this:

 The tired didn't really matter right then.

Part 2: the Layover

Intended to be 20 minutes long, I took my time rehydrating (I slept through the beverage cart for the first time ever), and learned of the plight (or blight) of our overbooked flight. Wanting to get into New York promptly, I held back. Then I was a woman crying because she couldn’t catch a later flight for whatever she was doing. She wasn’t crying at the podium, so I stepped up and volunteered. My flight has now been delayed (changed) to the 10am flight, which get me into LaGuardia at 1:40. 

Karma for this good deed, hoever, has brought me the following:

1)      1)      6 dollars to spend on breakfast at any joint in the place. I chose Einstein Brothers, They messed up my order by making me an egg sandwich with cheese. Luckily, the cheese was physically bonded one bagel half only, so it became an open face bagel sandwich.
2)      A $400 voucher towards a flight , with the only apparent caveat that it be taken in the next year. Luckily, that should be easy out of NYC.
3)      A first class seat on the next flight, which is the longer one.
4)      A chance to rehydrate, snack, and nap.

The Spoils of Poor

I have determined that this is somewhat  like my original plan—we’re just rearranging nap-times and Jess should see me fairly refreshed-like. It’s even possible a Bronx trip might happen today.

For now, being woken up from a drug induced slumber (albeit totally legit drugs  caused the slumber, means my nose is running, and I am hallucinating colors and shapes.  This means it’s time to head back down the nap trail.

More soon when the Author is fully functional.

Notes:

*Back in my day, children were small enough to curl into the fetal position and sleep happily, anywhere.

¹ Names changed to protect the innocent fat kid.

² Not hyperbole. Eight of them, the majority localized in my row.