We’re in beautiful Campbell, CA., staying with Enviro-spouse’s brother and sister-in-law. I’ve realized that one of my biggest challenges here will be staying INSIDE for 2 1/2 days, while E-spouse and various friends and family members traipse around OUTSIDE. We don’t hit Yosemite until late this afternoon; already, I’m blown away by the gorgeousness of this part of California.
Yesterday was a loooong day. My daughter practically pushed us out the door, thrilled by the thought of six days alone with her adoring Yia-Yia (my decidedly un-Greek mother), who lavishs her with gifts, attention, and love. Dropping the boy off with E-spouse’s parents was less traumatic than I’d imagined, but still teary (for both of us). My father-in-law shoved me out the door, saying, “I know it’s hard, but it’s going to be worth it.”
I basically collapsed into a puddle of exhaustion on the flights. Typically, I would love eight hours with nothing to do but read, write, and chat with E-spouse, but I could barely see straight. A good night’s sleep, a big breakfast, a walk, and a mocha latte have mostly restored me to my typical feistiness.
I’ve always adored air travel, despite the extravagant burning of fossil fuels and dispersal of high levels of carbon dioxide. So, here’s a bit of a meme: When was the first time you flew? What was your most memorable flight?
I’ll go first. I was twelve when my grandparents flew with me from Atlanta to the coast of Georgia for a vacation. My grandmother was quite the well-traveled Southern lady, and insisted on “dressing” for travel. I remember chafing at having to wear a Sunday school dress, but I knew which battles not to pick with my grandmother, and clothes were one of them. I spent the short flight with my nose pressed to the porthole–a habit I have yet to grow out of.
I wrote about my most memorable flight in a short piece of fiction, and although I have changed a few minor details, this is pretty much what happened:
My boyfriend, Nick, and I, were flying from Atlanta to London to Larnaca. At one point during the flight, as I was returning from the bathroom, the male air steward asked me if I would like to see the cockpit.
“Are you serious?” I asked
“Come on.” He motioned me towards the front of the plane.
Sheepishly, I entered the cockpit, which, thinking back on it, was an appropriate name for the space. Two large, good-natured Cypriot men were flying the plane—or, more specifically, were bantering and joking while occasionally checking the controls. They told me that we were somewhere over Hungary. Then they proceeded to fire questions at me in heavily accented English. They seemed thrilled to learn that I was visiting Cyprus for the first time. The co-pilot got a bit teary.
“Do you want to fly the airplane?” asked the pilot.
“What?” I asked, thinking that nothing like this would ever happen in the U.S., or anywhere else for that matter.
“Sit down,” he said, moving from his seat. “Hold this and watch the line.”
He pointed to a butterfly-shaped steering wheel and a computer screen that featured an icon of an airplane moving along a line, as if it was threaded onto a string.
“Turn it to the left,” he said, too loudly. I did. I watched the picture of the plane veer off the line. I realized that the actual plane was tilting to the left.
“Not too much,” he said, putting his hands over mine and pushing the wheel until the plane icon settled back into position. “We don’t want to end up over Azerbajian.”
He and the co-pilot laughed uproariously.
“Where have you been?”
Nick frowned at me when I eventually returned to my seat.
I told him.
“What? That has to be against international regulations or something.”
I shrugged. I’d thought the same thing. I imagined the pilot telling the air steward, “If you see any attractive young women, ask them if they want to see the cockpit.” Then he would have laughed suggestively. Despite my feminist proclivities, I had not found the situation particularly offensive. The pilots had that Mediterranean appreciation of women that I would come to recognize as so deeply embedded that they were not even aware of it. Accusing a Mediterranean man of sexism is about as effective as trying to separate paparazzi from a celebrity.
Missing you all!
