The Lighter Side of Traveling
By Charles Hildebrand
After visiting family and friends in Amman, Jordan, I was prepared for the long flight home to Bakersfield, CA. Or at least I thought I was. I should have paid attention to the signs at the very beginning…the first leg of the journey. As Bill Engvall would have said, “here’s your sign!” My wife and kids drove me to the airport and we pulled up in front of terminal number 1. There are actually two terminals at the airport in Amman, but I have never seen anyone use terminal number 2, so I just figured it was there to confuse passengers and make them think they were at some big bustling international airport. We unloaded my luggage, secured a luggage push cart and headed for the first portal of many I would encounter over the next 20 hours. We noticed rather nonchalantly that the departure/arrival board mounted on the wall just after we went through the front door blatantly read “Flight DL22 to New York is on time and will depart at gate 11 in terminal number 2.” TERMINAL TWO! You’ve got to be kidding. We turned around and unloaded all the baggage, shoved everyone back into the car and tried to figure out how to get to terminal number 2.
Finally, in the right place, we all said our tearful good-byes and gave each other big hugs and I was off down the corridor. I passed through the first of several scanners and metal detectors and X-ray machines and young high school looking kids with machine guns pointed in my direction. Whew! Made it, I sighed. I was beginning to develop this odd sense of accomplishment after sailing through the first channel of the tricky currents of the airport boarding bay.
I sauntered up to the ticket counter to check my bags and it took all of three and one half seconds to shred the sails of my little dingy.
“What’s in the box?” The man behind the counter asked sounding like he had already asked the same question to about 250 would-be passengers within the first ten minutes of his shift.
“The box?” I think I felt the twinge of a quiver in my voice. With two suitcases being allowed per passenger, I was hauling my big suitcase with all my personal belongings in it. Things like my socks and underwear, my tie rack, a couple of vintage crossword puzzle books, a reversible black/brown dress belt purchased carefully at Ross Dress for Less, several classic tee shirts and hand picked gifts of Dead Sea soap for all our friends…not to mention everything else I just threw in for good measure. I was also toting a large cardboard box that was filled with an old Dell computer that we carted over to the Middle East a year earlier that I was now bringing home. It wasn’t until after we headed for the airport that I started to worry that perhaps the customs people in New York would think it was a new one and would try to strong arm me and threaten me with Guantanamo Bay exile because I did not claim the thing. I was sure they would think I was trying to smuggle contraband into the good old US of A.
I gathered myself together as I stared back at the ticket giver. After all, this was not the customs desk in the U.S. I was leaving Jordan, not entering. “It’s an old computer that I am taking back home. I brought it with me when I came over here a year ago.” I answered sounding a little smug perhaps.
“Yeah?” he answered back. “Well, I’m gonna have to take a look at it.”
So, I ripped open the box and after showing him component after component finally convinced him that it was indeed used. With two boys, 8 and 10, nothing looks new for very long. I was a little embarrassed by this time, because a pretty substantial line had developed as I was showing this airport Gestapo all the scratches and smudges on the computer. But, I sighed a little knowing that I could re-tape the box with the extra tape I tossed in my suitcase and I would be out of the way for the waiting incoming passengers.
“You’re 3 kilos over weight, sir.”
“Huh?” I said as I stared dumbfounded into the half shut eyes of the ticket guy.
“Your suitcase. You’re going to have to take some stuff out of it to get under the weight limit. Or, you can just pay the extra cash for an overweight bag.”
“Ok, Ok, how much for the overweight bag?” I asked, thoroughly convinced that a few extra bucks wouldn’t kill me and it would be far better than holding up the line any longer.
“Two-hundred dollars,” the guy muttered in his monotone voice.
“TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS?! Like 2-0-0!?”
He just nodded his head.
“Everything in this suitcase combined is not worth $200. Are you crazy?”
“I don’t make the rules.” Eeyore groaned.
I grabbed a box of hot cinnamon drink packets and stuffed them into my carry-on. I then grabbed something else that was heavy. I’m not even sure what it was, but it weighed at least 2 kilos and I crammed it into my briefcase. I put the suitcase back up on the scales and stared at the undertaker.
“You’re still a couple of ounces over…but I’ll let it go.”
“Bless you my child.” I mumbled.
Dragging my carry-on behind me (I’d like to kiss the guy who invented those cute little wheels on suitcases.) and my briefcase in my other hand, I headed for the immigration desk, then up to gate 11.
As I sat there in those comfortable metal chairs waiting to be called to proceed to the assigned gate, I couldn’t help but wonder if the worse was behind me or ahead of me. Approximately fifteen minutes later, after passing through the next set of X-ray machines and scanners, I was lucky enough to be pulled aside by the “border patrol” and was asked to open up my carry-on and briefcase so they could “check the contents for any unusual items.” Well, it certainly didn’t take them long to find an unusual item. Sometime ago, in a different life, I think, I acquired a nasty looking bull’s horn with an attached mouthpiece. When a person places this horn in the proper position with the mouthpiece securely attached to the person’s lips, and this person buzzes his lips against the mouthpiece with a full blast of air from his lungs it makes a beautiful mellow fog horn type sound that resembles a constipated bovine as it screams for relief.
The officer picked up my prized horn and eyed it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“It’s a type of horn.” I offered. The guy doesn’t say anything, but keeps staring at it as he rolls it around in his hand.
“What’s it used for?”
“I don’t really know.” I answered feebly.
“Then why do you have it?” He asked.
“It’s a…a conversation piece.” That was all I could come up with in such short notice. He just shook his head and handed it back to me. I shoved it back into my carry-on and headed for the waiting area.
When I took my seat on the plane I noticed immediately that it was an older plane because they didn’t have those nifty little TV screens mounted into the back of the headrest of the seat in front of your seat. Bummer! But, they did have several screens strategically placed around the fuselage so everyone could have free access to the movies…everyone, that is, except those chosen few that sat in rows 27 and 28. I bet you’ll never guess where my seat was. Yep! Seat A (next to the window) row 28. Now, I did have a clear shot at the 9” screen down about 15 feet in the middle of the aisle. However, with the hanging “No Smoking” sign dangling a couple of inches in front and down in front of the sign…well, let’s just say, I really couldn’t see much of what was on the screen.
This is a good time, perhaps to address the conveniences of having a window seat. If, perchance, you have never been in a plane before and the sheer exhilaration of watching the plane lift off the ground has never been a joy you have experienced, the window seat is pretty cool. However, if you like the freedom of going to the bathroom sometime during an 11 hour flight, the window seat is most excruciating as you have to excuse yourself in front of all the people sitting in your row just to get out to the aisle. This was not my first flight across the Atlantic, nor was it the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, but the 8th. (I never claimed to be a jet setter.) But, nevertheless, watching the plane swoop up into the air was not something on my bucket list.
I did, however, have a delightful traveling partner seated directly to my aisle side. His name was Daniel and he was a graduate student from the University of Georgia (go Bulldogs). He had been in Jordan for the past year studying Arabic; had earned his advanced degree and was now headed home. Home was a suburb of Atlanta. I eventually offered to change seats with him because he was longing for a bulkhead to lean against so he could sleep…I hate people who can actually sleep on an airplane…and I was hoping to have the freedom of wandering around.
Now that takes us to the pre-take off drama that sets the stage for the next several hours. Across the aisle from where we were seated were the bulkhead seats; a nice place to be, especially if you have kids. Because we were near take off, the steward moved a hapless couple from somewhere in the belly of the plane to the bulkhead seats because they had a small baby. Just before we were supposed to taxi down to the runway, a Jordanian man and his two small children entered the plane and stopped short of the bulkhead seats.
“Hey!” (I have found that tact is not something that most Jordanians are blessed with.) “You are in our seats.”
The young mother excused herself and stated that they are where the steward put them.
“I don’t care where you were put. Those are our seats!”
The steward was summoned and the lady and her husband were escorted back to their original seats. Somewhere, in the conversation I overheard the gentleman explain to the steward that he has two children, 4 and 5 years old, and the oldest has autism. That was why he was given the seats he was so desperately seeking.
Sooo. When all else is said and done. I understood completely the statement the man made to the steward.
“He gets a little rambunctious when we are actually in the air. I hope he doesn’t disturb the passengers too much.” The man told the steward.
So, for the next 10 hours this kid screamed. I mean every 45 seconds or so came this bloodcurdling scream. For 10 hours a sadistic screaming maniac, or so it seemed to be, graced the heavens with his vocal chords. The saving grace…1 hour before we landed at JFK, he fell asleep. I looked around the plane at the faces of the passengers and it looked a little like a cartoon drawing with the character’s hair standing on end and the eyes puffy with the blood vessels streaked through the white of the eye like a lightening storm across the skies of Phoenix.
To add just a little more drama to the experience, I had come to realize I had developed another problem during the flight. I blame this “condition” on my dad. Or, from what I understand, his lineage, as it is a problem with almost everyone on his side of the family. I was beginning to fill up with air. The higher we flew, the more bloated I became. And, to add injury to insult, for some reason that I can not explain, while in flight, I can not seem to release. Eventually, my stomach started rolling and bubbling and then the cramps started. Suffice it to say, I could hardly wait to land and find a nice quiet spot to deflate.
Finally, touchdown. Because we had to go through all the rigors of incoming from a foreign country, we had to pick up our baggage and make our way to the immigration desk. I flew through that portion of the inquisition with flying colors, and then came customs. I filled out the appropriate paperwork on the plane before we landed. Are you declaring anything? Are you bringing and perishable items into the country? Do you have any exotic pets stuffed under your coat? etc. I listed the gifts I purchased for some of our friends and family, but with an $800 allowance for such things, I was not worried about them. As the customs officer was scanning my bags, he paused at the contents in my briefcase.
“What are those little odd shaped things in that bag, sir?” The officer questioned.
“Uh Oh.” I thought. I remembered the rule about not bringing nuts into the country, but I didn’t think that pertained to me. “Oh, that! Just some munchies I brought with me to snack on during the flight.”
“What kind of munchies?” He asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled.
“Sir, what kind of munchies?”
“Just some peanuts and almonds,” I offered.
“I’ll need to take a look.”
I opened the briefcase and removed the sack of nuts. The officer looked into the bag and said that I would have to dispose of the nuts before I could enter the country.
“Seriously?!”
“The rules state very clearly…”
“Yeah, Yeah, I know what the rules say.” I then grabbed a large handful of nuts and stuffed them into my mouth and dumped the rest in the garbage can.
I continued down the corridor and followed the signs to the tram. We landed at terminal 5 and I needed to go to terminal 8 in order to catch my flight to Los Angeles. Suddenly I realized that the signs led me to a point where I was standing outside in the cool 6:30 AM New York 48 degree morning air. Because it was April and the weather reports said that it was going to be lovely in New York I wore my sandals, shorts and a t-shirt. I guessed that “lovely” is not necessarily equivalent to warm. Nevertheless, there I was standing outside facing a busy airport street complete with zooming New York drivers. Suddenly Daniel, my Georgian traveling companion, steps up behind me.
“We in the right place?” He questioned.
“I certainly hope so, the sign across the street points to the right for terminal 8.” I guessed that Daniel’s connecting flight was leaving at terminal 8 as was mine, so we wandered through the New York traffic together. After walking for about a half mile, crossing two streets, through a tunnel, down a couple of corridors, over a bridge, and even making our way through part of a parking lot, we found ourselves standing in front of a sign that welcomed us to terminal 8. Immediately to our right was a flight of stairs that supposedly led to the departing gates. I glanced over at a lady standing behind a counter and asked her if there was an elevator anywhere. She said that there was. And, it was down that corridor and she pointed to her right. Daniel and I looked in the direction she was pointing and sure enough we saw the elevator door about five and a half miles down the hallway. He shrugged, picked up our luggage and ascended the stairs.
Thankfully, we didn’t have to stand in line to get a boarding pass, having already received that in Jordan. With shoulders erect we kind of sauntered by all the poor schmucks waiting in line. We turned the corner and there in front of us were several scanning X-ray machines and about 20 lines with close to 900 people in each line. I glanced at my watch and noted that the time was 6:40 AM. My flight to LA was to leave at 7:00 AM. I moved to the head of the line and found an official looking guy with a crumpled uniform blazer on with a duly official looking badge affixed to his lapel.
After I explained my situation to him, he escorted me to the head of one of the lines and I immediately started taking off my shoes preparing for the next encounter with the U.S Federal Marshals and their immigration posse. I couldn’t imagine that anything else could happen. They have my peanuts and almonds, pawed my bull’s horn trumpet, saw my 50 pouches of hot cinnamon tea, and scrutinized my computer. What else could they maul?
Oddly enough, I made it through this final check point with nothing more than a pleasant “have a nice day” ringing in my ears.
I quickly looked at my watch, 6:53 AM. I sighed with the realization that I made it. I took a quick look at my boarding pass to note which gate the passengers were boarding from. Gate 22. I looked up at the signs overhead and to my horror I saw that gates 12 through 23 were to my right. I took off on a run. I could almost make out the number 22 on the signpost about 5 miles down the walkway at the end of the building. I arrived just in time to watch the lady close the door to that funky moveable covered boarding ramp.
“Wait!” I cried!
She turned around and smiled. “You just made it, sir.”
I dropped my hands to my knees and let my head fall. I was panting for air and I could feel my heart screaming for oxygen. Somehow I managed to board the plane and found my seat. Oh goody, the window seat.
Sometimes life isn’t fair. In fact, I have discovered that life is hardly ever fair. In all the hustle and bustle, I never found that quiet remote spot to “release.” But, I felt a little relieved because with all the running and moving around, I didn’t feel as bloated as I did a few hours earlier.
We taxied down the runway and then up we went. The cramping started again about 12 seconds after we got in the air. I had a feeling this was going to be the longest 6 hours of my life. And, it was.
I tried to take my mind off my situation by watching a couple of movies. It didn’t work. It probably didn’t help that I had about 6 cups of coffee due partly because it was the only thing the airline offered that was free. I excused myself on three different occasions and crawled over my two row companions and made my way down to the bathroom. All three times I was there…nothing. I pushed and groaned and huffed and puffed…nothing. I was stopped up like a bottle of 30 year old vintage merlot. In addition to this, I was the object of a cruel joke played by the airline. I was placed in the very seat that the air conditioning outlet duct for the entire plane was released into the fuselage through my feet. My toes had become grotesque little piglet ice cubes. I wrapped my feet in the blanket they rent to you for a dollar. It didn’t really work due to the fact they are almost the size of a cheap napkin and almost as thick as one as well.
Finally, when the captain came on the PA system and announced that due to a strong tail wind, we were going to be landing about 15 minutes ahead of schedule. “Thank you, God.” I offered, looking heavenward, “for giving us the tailwind.” Now, if I can just get a little wind out of my tail, that would be great.
We finally landed and that is when I learned something I didn’t know, or for that matter, had never even thought about. It really means nothing when the captain says we are going to be landing ahead of schedule. What it means is that we will be sitting on the tarmac for an additional time period because the gate we are assigned to pull into is not ready for us because there is another plane sitting there loading passengers and getting ready to leave. Build me up; build me up buttercup, just to let me down…ugh!
I wasted no time getting out of that plane. Although that also brings me to another question. Why are all the passengers in such a rush to get out of the plane? They can’t all be constipated. The bell rings and the seatbelt light goes off and all the passengers spring to their feet, grab their carry-ons from overhead, and then stand there for about 7 hours waiting for their turn to leave…never could figure that out.
I practically ran through the tunneled ramp accidentally nailing a 90 year old geriatric with a cane. I apologized as I saw her stumble into the wall. I found a restroom and headed inside. Much to my relief there was one stall open. I threw my luggage in the corner, unloosed my clothing, let my pants drop to the floor and sat…and sat…and sat. “You got to be kidding!” I said out loud. It suddenly became strangely quiet in the room. The cramps I was experiencing were worse than any I have ever had before, yet…nothing. I stood up, buckled up, grabbed my luggage and briefly thought about jumping up and down, perhaps forcing the air out the orifice. I didn’t. I expected someone would call the authorities and I would be locked up as an insane derelict.
I made me way to the baggage claim area and waited. The airport bus that takes passengers from LAX to Bakersfield is scheduled to leave at 12 noon and it was currently 10:45 AM. For the first time, I did not feel rushed. I had some time to walk around and work out the kinks of flying and just breathe normally. I was wishing I had a coat or sweater or something. Beautiful sunny Southern California was having an off day as the sky was overcast and rainy with the temperature sitting on 49 degrees.
At about 10:50 the baggage started rolling down the ramp onto the conveyor belt. Ahh, there’s the computer box. I picked it up and placed it on the handy convenient cart that LAX lets you use for a mere $4.00. Well, at least it’s not the $5.00 New York charges. But, it’s not Jordan either. Jordan lets passengers use as many carts as they feel they need for FREE! Humph, and we think Jordan is a third world country. Go figure.
Something was wrong. All the baggage was now on the belt yet there was no sign of my suitcase. I searched for the baggage claim desk and eventually found it around towards the back of the room tucked up underneath a stairwell. I explained the situation to the lady and after she entered some information into her computer, she announced that it did not make the flight, but it was on flight 703 from New York and it was scheduled to arrive at 11:48 AM. I glanced at my watch and read that it was now 11:03 AM. OK, I thought, no problem. I pick up my suitcase and make it outside to where the bus arrives within the allotted time frame. IF…everything happens as it should. AND…as we all know, everything always happens as it should. At least I was grateful for the fact that first, I was in a position that I could see the baggage come down the shoot and second, see where the bus pulls up while standing in the same spot.
Finally, at 12 noon, the baggage starts coming down the ramp. I keep waiting all the while keeping one eye peeled for the bus. Bag after bag falls onto the conveyor belt. All, except my brown safari-figured suitcase. It was 12:20 as I glanced again at my watch and no suitcase…but no bus either. At least I took some relief in the fact that I had made arrangements with the baggage claim lady that if for some reason my suitcase did not arrive until after I boarded the bus, they would fly the suitcase to Bakersfield and personally deliver it to the house. But, the suitcase had all my personal items in it, my clothes, my presents, my tie rack. And, how long would it take to get that stuff to me? Today, tonight, next week?
At that moment, I saw the bus pull to the curb…no suitcase. What should I do? I made a quick decision and headed for the door. I glanced one more time over my shoulder in hopes that by some wizardly miracle my suitcase would appear. Wouldn’t you know it…there it was. I caught a glimpse of a little giraffe neck on the corner of a light brown bag. I took the chance that the bus driver was going to have to load other people’s luggage and therefore buying me enough time to grab the bag. I anxiously waited for the bag to descend the belt, when all of a sudden…and I am not making this up…the belt stops. There’s my bag stuck half way up the ramp. I can see the animals on the bag reaching for me. I looked toward the bus and could see the driver loading the last of the bags into the buses storage compartment. I glanced at the sign that was boldly placed above the rotating baggage conveyor belt, “DO NOT LEAN, STAND, OR SIT ON THE BELT”. Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. I jumped up on the conveyor belt and crawled up the shoot just far enough that I could grab the corner of the bag. I pulled it down the ramp and loaded it onto my cart. I raced to the door and yelled at the driver who already had one foot on the bottom step.
“WAIT! WAIT! BAKERSFIELD, WAIT!”
The guy turned around and saw me waving frantically trying to push the cart with one hand and watching the carts wheels swivel in all directions. He waves back and opens the baggage compartment.
I boarded the bus, which was packed with people all headed to Bakersfield. I had no idea Bakersfield was such a popular place. When I found an empty seat toward the back I slid down and breathed a sigh of relief. That was about the same time that I realized that it was about a half degree above freezing in that bus. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the driver had the air conditioner going full blast. I looked around me and it appeared that I was the only one who was not comfortable. No one else was bundled up, shivering or had noticeable goose bumps. Maybe it was just me, I thought. So, I shoved my hands down into my crotch and hoped that at least my hands would stay warm.
Somewhere about 10 miles down the road on 405 just before Santa Monica, a gentleman sitting about 4 rows in front of me hollers down to the driver.
“Hey, is there anyway you can turn the damn air conditioner off?”
A moment or two later the driver talks into the PA system and apologizes for the inconvenience but he says that the air conditioner is stuck and won’t go off. A bevy of groans are heard throughout the bus. So…there I was, shivering in the bus from hell, on the way to Bakersfield.
I finally walk through the front doorway at 4 PM. Seeing as how I left Jordan at 12 midnight and the fact that there is a 9 hour time difference, which equates to 25 hours of blissful travel. I can hardly wait until I can do this again.
After I dropped my luggage in the hallway, I headed directly to the little boy’s room.
