Happen to have engaged in a spot of air travel, which I don’t often have the chance to enjoy, so thought I would channel my inner pilgrim/TCK/Mark Steyn and, in no particular order, catalogue all my recurring and basically unmoved observations about the modern circumstance of Flight, because really, I notice all these things every time, and they never cease to delight and amuse me.
The charm of flying, for me, is that it distills and clarifies the intermediate space between leaving and arriving that is ruined so much by being in a car for several days with children. It is the regular dying/resurrecting meme, compressed by time and miles so that you swallow it down quickly, rather than dragging it out over the course of your whole life, or your whole road trip. You die to the place you are leaving, home in this case, kissing all the lovely children goodbye, or in my case, waving at them through the windows of the cars of the lovely people who they all love more than me. I mean, they do love me, probably, but also, oh my word, it’s pure awesome sauce to be with friends and not to be around your mother for a few days. Anyway, you are, as it were, lost to memory, entering that fantastical realm of the dead. Not Sheol, not the basement of despair, but rather Transit.
You gather the few things that you hope will carry you into that other unknown realm, Arrival, having taken the trouble to consider the various implications of shoes that are easily removed versus shoes that you want other people to notice. You have gnashed your teeth over the unpredictability of indoor temperatures. You troubled to paint your nails in the midst of packing and repacking, and finally, at the very last moment, faced down the question of How Many Books. It’s not that you are a great reader, (you take pleasure in many things) so that when you lug four or five tomes you are engaging in some kind of terminal deception. It’s that you are afraid of being bored. So you always take too many. Except that when, as in this case, you tread down on the side of prudence, and your bag is felt to be a reasonable carrying weight, you are afflicted with morbid regret and anxiety because now it is definitely possible to read all that you have. It’s like discovering you have fallen behind on butter and eggs. Or, in modern parlance, You Don’t Have Margin.
Can you tell that I’ve fallen in love with the word Modern? I was inclining my mind towards it before but when the New York Times unfurled their delicate and fragile leaf that is the Modern Man, I felt that I had been given something wonderful. The list, lodged firmly in my exhausted mind, guided that beloved pursuit–Airport People Watching. And, I was definitely able to discover that The New York Times Modern Man is definitely a thing. Not some rare flower, only to be observed in the rarefied air of the City, I saw him practically Everywhere. The shoes, the bags, the beards, the glasses, the crafted and studied gaze. In one case, there he was, cuddled under a large red blanket, slumbering. I confess we both, me and my own husband, or should I say Life Partner, stopped and stared.
“You know,” whispered Matt, “back in the day, men weren’t affected by indoor temperatures so much that they snuggled publicly under warm red blankets.”
“Philistine,” I admonished, and we passed by in hushed wonder.
But the modern way is also not that nouveau. Mostly because the eighties are really back. Not kidding, I saw the exact coat I wore in eighth grade, on a person who should have known better. But more than that, as we carry on in these difficult and treacherous times, it is the same hassle of waiting in lines, juggling sandwich and phone and sweater and boarding pass, staring into the middle distance. What’s changed, for me, is the deep insecurity of unbelief. There’s no way, I whisper silently to myself, that me shoving my liquids into this one quart bag is helping the security of anything, least of all the plane. The business of half disrobing, shoving your stuff in grey, imagination destroying bins, and then walking single file through a machine always brings the words, “all we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned each to his own way” into my rebellious mind. The posture of surrender, for me rather than the unknown enemy, roils the flame of distrust.
On the other hand, I was already prepared to be annoyed because I carefully checked the TSA website to guard against the embarrassment of possessing those items that might be construed as threatening, and I there discovered no easy way to find a list of prohibited items, nor a large announcement that I no longer am required to remove my shoes, which would have been nice to know before I did. Rather there was an extra large link assuring me that if I am transgender, the TSA is prepared to deal with me. I mean, I hope it would be kindly. I didn’t click on the link because I was already mad about having to individually inquire about each item rather than being able to consult a list. Then I was mad that anything helpful about beating your way past the TSA if you were suffering from a disability came fully two hyper links after the transgender help. Or hurt. Really, if I was trying to change my gender, I wouldn’t want the TSA to know about it or try to help. But if I was in a wheel chair I would definitely need assistance. What on earth? How do transgenderism issues have anything to do with all of us being secure on an airplane? Don’t answer that question. Really, for real, Do Not go to the comments to answer that question.
So, death first. You pass through the valley of unknowing, of anonymity, of watching and being watched. And you are reborn on the other side, the same but different, unencumbered by your usual self, if only for a day, or two.
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