A Day With Delta
3:55 a.m.
It’s time. We pulled ourselves out of bed after three hours of sleep. For reasons particular to the airline industry, passengers on international flights are expected to be at the airport a month and a half before the departure of their flights.
This was our first trip to Europe but we finished packing in a manner long prescribed by family vacation: frantically flinging everything we could think of into our suitcases until we could hear luggage zippers losing teeth as they strained to hold it all in.
Our son-in-law Dallas drove us to the airport. The normal drop off lane at Salt Lake International is closed for construction, so he had to leave us at one of the other outer rings of hell. It’s an omen, I know it.
6:41 a.m.
It’s technically three minutes after the requested two-hour prior check-in time, but Delta took us anyway. We checked our bags, shouldered our carry-ons and headed for the gate. My wife started in with the usual “I hope the plane doesn’t crash” stuff. She’s been thinking about it for a while now and has come up with a psychological countermeasure.
“I keep telling myself that a million people fly everyday and nothing happens,” she said.
It’s excellent logic. In fact, I used it on myself in order to jump out of airplanes at Ft. Benning, Georgia, in 1977. It worked perfectly until the day that it didn’t and I hit the ground going 500 miles an hour.
I thought about mentioning this minor loophole in her logic but decided not to. We’re going to Spain. They probably won’t let me carry her onto the plane drugged.
8:11 a.m.
We boarded the aircraft at gate D1. The crew was in hurry to get the aircraft loaded and into the air. They kept telling us to sit down. There’s always someone though, isn’t there. In our case, it was a young couple separated by the cruelties of pre-assigned aircraft seating. They climbed over the seats and blocked the aisles until they found two people willing to change seats with them so that they could sit together.
8:45 a.m.
The plane is taking off. Technically it’s seven minutes late but I’m not going to say anything about it making us even for checking in less than two hours before take off because, also technically, I’m not supposed to be typing on this laptop while the wheels are coming up.
9:36 a.m.
The movie on this plane sucks. According to the screen, a small airplane is 38,996 feet over Wheatland, Wyoming, traveling 587 mph, with a 67 mph tailwind. Also, it’s -61 degrees Fahrenheit outside the plane. It’s a lousy plot if you ask me.
9:39 a.m.
Got it. The little plane is us.
It’s a map. Looks like we’ll be flying over Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Wisconsin, Lake Michigan. We’ll also be violating a teeny bit of Canadian airspace near Lake Eerie.
I would have rather had the movie.
10:27 a.m.
It took us exactly 30 minutes to fly across Iowa. I waved south at Des Moines, home of the greatest travel writer of all time (except for Mark Twain) Bill Bryson. That reminds me --- I left my copy of “Innocents Abroad” home on the kitchen table. I’ll have to buy one in New York. Can’t go to Europe without America’s #1 travel primer.
12:10 p.m.
Sorry. I fell asleep after lunch. Not all the meals on flights are now included as part of the ticket price. Flight attendants brought around menus. My wife was thinking ahead though. She packed us a lunch: ham sandwiches and grapes. I traded my grapes for the Oreos of a kid across the aisle.
We’re about to land at JFK.
12:14 p.m.
We’re not landing at JFK. The airport is overbooked. We’re in a holding pattern over the southern Catskill Mountains. The pilot says we’ll be here another 20 minutes.
12:19 p.m.
Change of plans. We are landing.
2:59 p.m. (New York time)
We landed and walked through the terminal. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones in it whose native tongue is English. We are definitely not in Utah anymore.
I stopped at a book store for a copy of “Innocents Abroad.” The clerk --- and I’m not lying here --- actually made me spell “Mark Twain” so he could check the computer for the book’s availability.
I’m not sure whether that bothers me more or the fact that they didn’t have a single copy of anything by Twain (or Bryson, for that matter). Plenty of courtroom and vampire novels though. Maybe it’s good I’m going to Europe. At least over there they have a reason for saying, “Who”?” when you mention Mark Twain.
4:01 p.m. (New York)
I wasn’t kidding about the language barrier at JFK. The young couple sitting next to us at Gate 10 for Barcelona is speaking --- near as I can tell --- Catalan or Basque. Maybe it’s Martian. Hell, I don’t know. We manage to make it work when they ask for the time, shared the rest of my grapes, and looked at pictures of my grandkids on this laptop.
4:29 p.m. (New York)
Remind me to never work at JFK International Airport, especially as an airline customer service rep, janitor, food service worker, and/or cop.
7:55 p.m. (New York)
What was supposed to be a two and a half hour layover is now into its fourth hour. Our plane is broke. Not the entire plane, just the toilets. They exploded or something. I don’t mind waiting. If it was something to do with an engine or the landing gear, I’d be mad. But there’s no way I want to be somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic and suddenly find myself heading for Europe in a septic tank with wings. The only thing worse than actually being dead is wishing you were and being unable to make it happen.
8:50 p.m. (New York)
We’re getting a new plane. The toilets in the old one are still broke.
9:48 p.m. (New York)
The wheels just came up on Delta Flight #94 and we’re headed for Spain. Apparently everyone is a little frazzled. A flight attendant just walked by and saw me typing this. She didn’t seem to care that it might cause us to crash. She sort of rushed the safety drill as well. No matter. If we crash, it’ll be in the ocean. I swim about as well as a piano.
12:16 a.m. (Atlantic time)
We flew up the coast of America, past Halifax where my father-in-law helped sink German U-boats in WW2, out over the Grand Banks and the grave of the Titanic. As near as I can tell by the view from my window, we’re somewhere dark with lots of clouds. My wife is asleep on my shoulder.
2:01 a.m.
Who can sleep like this?
10:46 a.m. (Barcelona time)
We’re here and heading for Spanish customs. There’s a long line. I hope this isn’t going to hurt. Wish I hadn’t eaten all those grapes.
10:51 a.m. (Barcelona)
That was easy. A guy with a gun gave me a visual once-over and slammed a stamp onto my passport. We’re officially in Spain. I could have been muling a pound of meth or a bunch of Pam Anderson DVDs and he wouldn’t have cared.
11:22 a.m. (Barcelona)
Holy #&%@! That was some cab ride. During the last half, the driver actually turned around and put his chin on the back of the front seat while he talked to us.
12:42 p.m. (Barcelona)
We’re checked into our hotel. I can’t wait to get out and explore Catalonia. The room is OK. The bed actually looks
It’s time. We pulled ourselves out of bed after three hours of sleep. For reasons particular to the airline industry, passengers on international flights are expected to be at the airport a month and a half before the departure of their flights.
This was our first trip to Europe but we finished packing in a manner long prescribed by family vacation: frantically flinging everything we could think of into our suitcases until we could hear luggage zippers losing teeth as they strained to hold it all in.
Our son-in-law Dallas drove us to the airport. The normal drop off lane at Salt Lake International is closed for construction, so he had to leave us at one of the other outer rings of hell. It’s an omen, I know it.
6:41 a.m.
It’s technically three minutes after the requested two-hour prior check-in time, but Delta took us anyway. We checked our bags, shouldered our carry-ons and headed for the gate. My wife started in with the usual “I hope the plane doesn’t crash” stuff. She’s been thinking about it for a while now and has come up with a psychological countermeasure.
“I keep telling myself that a million people fly everyday and nothing happens,” she said.
It’s excellent logic. In fact, I used it on myself in order to jump out of airplanes at Ft. Benning, Georgia, in 1977. It worked perfectly until the day that it didn’t and I hit the ground going 500 miles an hour.
I thought about mentioning this minor loophole in her logic but decided not to. We’re going to Spain. They probably won’t let me carry her onto the plane drugged.
8:11 a.m.
We boarded the aircraft at gate D1. The crew was in hurry to get the aircraft loaded and into the air. They kept telling us to sit down. There’s always someone though, isn’t there. In our case, it was a young couple separated by the cruelties of pre-assigned aircraft seating. They climbed over the seats and blocked the aisles until they found two people willing to change seats with them so that they could sit together.
8:45 a.m.
The plane is taking off. Technically it’s seven minutes late but I’m not going to say anything about it making us even for checking in less than two hours before take off because, also technically, I’m not supposed to be typing on this laptop while the wheels are coming up.
9:36 a.m.
The movie on this plane sucks. According to the screen, a small airplane is 38,996 feet over Wheatland, Wyoming, traveling 587 mph, with a 67 mph tailwind. Also, it’s -61 degrees Fahrenheit outside the plane. It’s a lousy plot if you ask me.
9:39 a.m.
Got it. The little plane is us.
It’s a map. Looks like we’ll be flying over Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Wisconsin, Lake Michigan. We’ll also be violating a teeny bit of Canadian airspace near Lake Eerie.
I would have rather had the movie.
10:27 a.m.
It took us exactly 30 minutes to fly across Iowa. I waved south at Des Moines, home of the greatest travel writer of all time (except for Mark Twain) Bill Bryson. That reminds me --- I left my copy of “Innocents Abroad” home on the kitchen table. I’ll have to buy one in New York. Can’t go to Europe without America’s #1 travel primer.
12:10 p.m.
Sorry. I fell asleep after lunch. Not all the meals on flights are now included as part of the ticket price. Flight attendants brought around menus. My wife was thinking ahead though. She packed us a lunch: ham sandwiches and grapes. I traded my grapes for the Oreos of a kid across the aisle.
We’re about to land at JFK.
12:14 p.m.
We’re not landing at JFK. The airport is overbooked. We’re in a holding pattern over the southern Catskill Mountains. The pilot says we’ll be here another 20 minutes.
12:19 p.m.
Change of plans. We are landing.
2:59 p.m. (New York time)
We landed and walked through the terminal. I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones in it whose native tongue is English. We are definitely not in Utah anymore.
I stopped at a book store for a copy of “Innocents Abroad.” The clerk --- and I’m not lying here --- actually made me spell “Mark Twain” so he could check the computer for the book’s availability.
I’m not sure whether that bothers me more or the fact that they didn’t have a single copy of anything by Twain (or Bryson, for that matter). Plenty of courtroom and vampire novels though. Maybe it’s good I’m going to Europe. At least over there they have a reason for saying, “Who”?” when you mention Mark Twain.
4:01 p.m. (New York)
I wasn’t kidding about the language barrier at JFK. The young couple sitting next to us at Gate 10 for Barcelona is speaking --- near as I can tell --- Catalan or Basque. Maybe it’s Martian. Hell, I don’t know. We manage to make it work when they ask for the time, shared the rest of my grapes, and looked at pictures of my grandkids on this laptop.
4:29 p.m. (New York)
Remind me to never work at JFK International Airport, especially as an airline customer service rep, janitor, food service worker, and/or cop.
7:55 p.m. (New York)
What was supposed to be a two and a half hour layover is now into its fourth hour. Our plane is broke. Not the entire plane, just the toilets. They exploded or something. I don’t mind waiting. If it was something to do with an engine or the landing gear, I’d be mad. But there’s no way I want to be somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic and suddenly find myself heading for Europe in a septic tank with wings. The only thing worse than actually being dead is wishing you were and being unable to make it happen.
8:50 p.m. (New York)
We’re getting a new plane. The toilets in the old one are still broke.
9:48 p.m. (New York)
The wheels just came up on Delta Flight #94 and we’re headed for Spain. Apparently everyone is a little frazzled. A flight attendant just walked by and saw me typing this. She didn’t seem to care that it might cause us to crash. She sort of rushed the safety drill as well. No matter. If we crash, it’ll be in the ocean. I swim about as well as a piano.
12:16 a.m. (Atlantic time)
We flew up the coast of America, past Halifax where my father-in-law helped sink German U-boats in WW2, out over the Grand Banks and the grave of the Titanic. As near as I can tell by the view from my window, we’re somewhere dark with lots of clouds. My wife is asleep on my shoulder.
2:01 a.m.
Who can sleep like this?
10:46 a.m. (Barcelona time)
We’re here and heading for Spanish customs. There’s a long line. I hope this isn’t going to hurt. Wish I hadn’t eaten all those grapes.
10:51 a.m. (Barcelona)
That was easy. A guy with a gun gave me a visual once-over and slammed a stamp onto my passport. We’re officially in Spain. I could have been muling a pound of meth or a bunch of Pam Anderson DVDs and he wouldn’t have cared.
11:22 a.m. (Barcelona)
Holy #&%@! That was some cab ride. During the last half, the driver actually turned around and put his chin on the back of the front seat while he talked to us.
12:42 p.m. (Barcelona)
We’re checked into our hotel. I can’t wait to get out and explore Catalonia. The room is OK. The bed actually looks
posted by Robert Kirby @ 3:33 PM |
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