So, I'm sitting there in Detroit airport, watching CNN, or should I say, The Pope Network, learning more than I ever cared to know about JPII. Who knew that in his youth he was an avid skiier, and that he wrote religious poetry? Well, the religious poetry isn't too shocking, but the skiing, can you just imagine him hurtling down a black diamond run, robes flapping in the breeze, pope hat threatening to fly off, using his big staff as poles. Hilarious. Where was I? Oh yes, Detroit. While I sit in the lounge, I scan the crowd, looking for people that I want to avoid sitting next to. Anyone that looks like they'll talk to much, I want no part of them, anoyone with visable sweat marks on their shirt, no part of them, anyone old and looks like they'll need assistance getting their bad into the overhead, no part of them. Red flags were flying up all over the place, fat, old, sweaty, chatty people were everywhere, all I wanted was to go to sleep, or at least pretend to sleep, so that no one would talk to me. The boarding call eventually came, and I found my seat, next to the window, a good spot to sleep away the hours. The seat next to me was empty, even better, I thought, my luck was in, I can put my feet up and have a proper sleep! The flight attendants were buzzing around at the front of the plane, some sort of commotion, someone was late for the flight, looking around, I saw that the only seat available was the one next to me. Hoping that the doors would close, leaving me free to sprawl out, I sat and waited. Now delayed by 15 minutes, things were looking good, word filtering around that they were putting out one more call for the passenger, then closing the door. To my extreme disappointment, I heard "Here he Comes" shouted from the tunnel, I was even more disappointed when I could hear the duty free clinking in the bag before my neighbour came into view. Then, he appeared, the quintessential Brit on holiday. Wife-beater tank top over short shorts, black socks, sandles, and, I shit you not, 12 bags of duty free. He found his seat, sat down, and threw his arm around me. "I almost didn't make it! Cheers for saving me seat!" a thousand possible responses flashed through my mind. All I could muster was a weak smile and wish I was dead. My new mate, Mick, proceeded to tell me all about his 7 days in Orlando, and how glad he was to be getting home. I was enthralled. He even breached airplane etiquette by nudging me while I had my headphones on and trying to sleep, to tell me about the dinner he had at a Ponderosa, "wonderful place, his steak was
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Annoyance at 30,000 Feet
Those airlines sure have a kooky sense of humor. They must see me coming, stifling their giggles, giving each other winks and nudges when I turn my head. They're all in on the joke, they know who they're sitting me beside, and the world's greatest comic genius couldn't have come up with a better punchline. Ha Ha. Very fucking funny.
So, I'm sitting there in Detroit airport, watching CNN, or should I say, The Pope Network, learning more than I ever cared to know about JPII. Who knew that in his youth he was an avid skiier, and that he wrote religious poetry? Well, the religious poetry isn't too shocking, but the skiing, can you just imagine him hurtling down a black diamond run, robes flapping in the breeze, pope hat threatening to fly off, using his big staff as poles. Hilarious. Where was I? Oh yes, Detroit. While I sit in the lounge, I scan the crowd, looking for people that I want to avoid sitting next to. Anyone that looks like they'll talk to much, I want no part of them, anoyone with visable sweat marks on their shirt, no part of them, anyone old and looks like they'll need assistance getting their bad into the overhead, no part of them. Red flags were flying up all over the place, fat, old, sweaty, chatty people were everywhere, all I wanted was to go to sleep, or at least pretend to sleep, so that no one would talk to me. The boarding call eventually came, and I found my seat, next to the window, a good spot to sleep away the hours. The seat next to me was empty, even better, I thought, my luck was in, I can put my feet up and have a proper sleep! The flight attendants were buzzing around at the front of the plane, some sort of commotion, someone was late for the flight, looking around, I saw that the only seat available was the one next to me. Hoping that the doors would close, leaving me free to sprawl out, I sat and waited. Now delayed by 15 minutes, things were looking good, word filtering around that they were putting out one more call for the passenger, then closing the door. To my extreme disappointment, I heard "Here he Comes" shouted from the tunnel, I was even more disappointed when I could hear the duty free clinking in the bag before my neighbour came into view. Then, he appeared, the quintessential Brit on holiday. Wife-beater tank top over short shorts, black socks, sandles, and, I shit you not, 12 bags of duty free. He found his seat, sat down, and threw his arm around me. "I almost didn't make it! Cheers for saving me seat!" a thousand possible responses flashed through my mind. All I could muster was a weak smile and wish I was dead. My new mate, Mick, proceeded to tell me all about his 7 days in Orlando, and how glad he was to be getting home. I was enthralled. He even breached airplane etiquette by nudging me while I had my headphones on and trying to sleep, to tell me about the dinner he had at a Ponderosa, "wonderful place, his steak was thick, lovely, so thick they could only cook it medium rare, bloody lovely!" Isn't that an offence worthy of opening the door and kicking him out? Thankfully, he was half drunk, hence the lateness, he'd been waiting for his connection for 5 hours and decided to spend it in the bar. Lucky, lucky me. So when the drinks came around, he managed to secure three small bottles of wine, downed them, and passed out. Six hours later he awoke refreshed and didn't miss a beat, belting out a rousing rendition of "God Save the Queen" as we touched down at Gatwick. I managed to escape the emotional goodbye by running off while he struggled to extricate his duty free from the overhead cabin. Sure, this guy just wanted to chat, maybe he was even nervous about flying, which made him chatty. Obviously, I'm just not a nice person, I wanted him to shut up and leave me alone. Maybe that's why the people at the desk enjoy me checking in so much, there must be a little note somewhere in my passport, a little flag on my permanent record that tells them how much I *love* people, and to find the most inflammatory seat mate for me. Hee Hee, good one guys. Jerry Seinfeld's got nothing at you. Now, if you'll excuse me, my headphones are on, and I'm trying to sleep, so please, fuck off.
So, I'm sitting there in Detroit airport, watching CNN, or should I say, The Pope Network, learning more than I ever cared to know about JPII. Who knew that in his youth he was an avid skiier, and that he wrote religious poetry? Well, the religious poetry isn't too shocking, but the skiing, can you just imagine him hurtling down a black diamond run, robes flapping in the breeze, pope hat threatening to fly off, using his big staff as poles. Hilarious. Where was I? Oh yes, Detroit. While I sit in the lounge, I scan the crowd, looking for people that I want to avoid sitting next to. Anyone that looks like they'll talk to much, I want no part of them, anoyone with visable sweat marks on their shirt, no part of them, anyone old and looks like they'll need assistance getting their bad into the overhead, no part of them. Red flags were flying up all over the place, fat, old, sweaty, chatty people were everywhere, all I wanted was to go to sleep, or at least pretend to sleep, so that no one would talk to me. The boarding call eventually came, and I found my seat, next to the window, a good spot to sleep away the hours. The seat next to me was empty, even better, I thought, my luck was in, I can put my feet up and have a proper sleep! The flight attendants were buzzing around at the front of the plane, some sort of commotion, someone was late for the flight, looking around, I saw that the only seat available was the one next to me. Hoping that the doors would close, leaving me free to sprawl out, I sat and waited. Now delayed by 15 minutes, things were looking good, word filtering around that they were putting out one more call for the passenger, then closing the door. To my extreme disappointment, I heard "Here he Comes" shouted from the tunnel, I was even more disappointed when I could hear the duty free clinking in the bag before my neighbour came into view. Then, he appeared, the quintessential Brit on holiday. Wife-beater tank top over short shorts, black socks, sandles, and, I shit you not, 12 bags of duty free. He found his seat, sat down, and threw his arm around me. "I almost didn't make it! Cheers for saving me seat!" a thousand possible responses flashed through my mind. All I could muster was a weak smile and wish I was dead. My new mate, Mick, proceeded to tell me all about his 7 days in Orlando, and how glad he was to be getting home. I was enthralled. He even breached airplane etiquette by nudging me while I had my headphones on and trying to sleep, to tell me about the dinner he had at a Ponderosa, "wonderful place, his steak was
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