For the first half hour or so you are busy "settling in" as you wait excitedly to taxi to the runway. This includes hoisting a heavy, overpacked roll-y, stuffed with clothes you may never wear, into the overhead without injuring your back, sitting and trying to get comfortble. There's also fiddling with the seat belt, squishing your nice coat and previously spiffy carry-on into the dark, dirty space on a carpet beneath your feet and checking out neighbors.The captain cheerily announces a "brief delay" and it no longer feels exciting.
Since it's usually a seven or eight a.m. "departure"- which means (if you count backwards) you've been up since three something- you are determined to sleep for the first few hours, which almost never happens. You writhe your weary, sleep deprived body into a consciousness blocking, soothing place that totally does not block light, noise or consciousness.
After an hour or so of pretending to "sleep," you "wake" and inquire about the time, at which point you find out you have not completed yet a fifth of the journey. You continue to down as much water as possible to avoid dehydration.Heading for the bathroom and while waiting for the occupied, claustrophobic little closet to become available, you have a brief but intense conversation with a curious fight attendant who seems mesmerized by the tiny, across-the-body Baggalini you wear. She asks if she can see how the little compartments work. The door opens and you slither sideways into the tiny space.
Returning to your seat you go through your carry-on somewhat wildly looking for something you may have forgotten. Everything is in small, Ziploc bags yet still basically unidentifiable. It's discouraging.
Free floating and un-Ziplocked items in the bag reveal a crumpled scarf, a now creased folder, a couple of pens, a pad, a book, two hair clips, tissue packets, loose hard candies; the process of pawing through the stuff is excruciating. You do not find what you are looking for and have forgotten what it was, but make a mental note to check for it again later.
Free floating and un-Ziplocked items in the bag reveal a crumpled scarf, a now creased folder, a couple of pens, a pad, a book, two hair clips, tissue packets, loose hard candies; the process of pawing through the stuff is excruciating. You do not find what you are looking for and have forgotten what it was, but make a mental note to check for it again later.
Staring intermittently at the book you brought occupies a few unhappy minutes before you decide to search for a movie. The airline film "library" is mainly Disney-ugh along with other made-for-video really bad movies, but you refuse to go it alone and pay for wi-fi, and in any case your "device" is way too small. You go through the menu twice and decide it's time for the bathroom again. It's so important to stay hydrated, you remind yourself, even though this means constantly having to pee in a contorted pose, in a teeny closet that presages being really, really careful; by now your eyes are burning crazily from the dry, recycled air.
You begin this little diary, madly scribbling a few notes, then start the whole idiotic process again: rummaging through the carry-on; going to the bathroom; staring into space; refusing to read your book; more staring; looking at the movie menu in utter disgust; going to the bathroom . . . .
Three hours finally have passed although you have no idea by now what the real time is and may be beyond caring. In any event, you will have the chance to repeat the entire process of rummaging, staring, cursing at the movie menu, staring, wondering if the other passengers are going through the same thing or just have taken drugs, staring, and peeing in a most uncomfortable position at least three more times, and possibly more.
By the time you arrive you are more exhausted than ever dreamed, and the soul crushing, beaten down, nihilistic feeling that began shortly after boarding has permeated almost every cell; but as you prepare for landing (what will that be like this time? Such episodes from air to ground vary from relatively "smooth" to unbelievably white knuckle) you vow to buck up, drag yourself and all your stuff down that crowded, narrow aisle, and onward!
