My friend Janet and I set out for Charlotte at 8:30 a.m. She also has a flight going out today so we carpool. We gab the whole way. I know we're at the airport when I see a jumbo jet scooting low across the freeway and disappear behind a brick building.
We arrive at the drop-off for U.S. Airways. There's a huge angel statue out front. Now I am getting nervous, my heart starting to race. Janet is going to park the car while I go to check in. I'm fumbling with my papers. I get to the counter and present them, relieved that everything seems to be in order. There is an automated check-luggage thing like the self-checkout in Bi-Lo but I don't process new information well when I'm nervous, which the man behind the counter sees so he casually steps around and helps me get my info keyed in, puts the barcoded paper band on my suitcase, and gives me a ticket with a number on it so I can claim my bag "on the other side." It's like the arm bracelets in the maternity ward so babies don't get switched.
I am to go to gate 15 the man instructs as my bag floats away on the sheet metal mechanical stream. Seeing my blank expression, he points to the right. Soon I am channeled into the rope maze, the line of passengers snaking along toward security. An old lady in front of me is talking about a new baby, a grandchild she is going to see. She has on lovely bright blue pants with a casual, mostly white button-down shirt and silver hair. The young woman she is talking to is going to meet her husband in New York she says. I am feeling very panicky and willing myself not to cry.
At the security desk, someone takes my paper and ID, marks my paper and waves me on. At the checkpoint I'm told to remove my shoes and sunglasses and place them in one of the cat litter pans along with my laptop, which must be taken out of its case, and my handbag (actually, it is Kathy's camera bag) and then step into the portal, putting my feet on the big yellow clown feet painted on the floor. And so I am herded along. After I'm cleared and go to retrieve my stuff, there is another lap top that looks exactly like mine. I am confused for a minute trying to decide which one is mine. Then I decide it must be the first one, as a nice looking young man is reaching for the other one behind me. I tell him if he opens it up and there's flowers on the screen saver, we've got our laptops switched. He didn't say what I'd find on his but he didn't look like a perve...
Later, down in what seems like a cave to me, the boarding waiting area, I quickly power mine up just to be sure -- yep, flowers. I am early so I have time to go looking for a bottle of water. As I'm heading back up the long, wide corridor, I meet Janet, who has by now parked her car and gone through security. I am very funny about my water. Although my family and many friends tell me water is water, I know better. I don't know how they do it but the Aquafina people have managed to bottle water that truly tastes like spring water. I grew up in the country so I know what spring water tastes like. All I can find is Dasani and other off brand stuff. But I have seen at least one person with an Acquafina bottle. The second person I see with one is a young man sitting in one of the many airport restaurants. He has his headphones on so it is a stretch for me, a sweet southern girl, to go interrupt this nice man to ask him where he got his water but desperate times call for desperate measures. I am disappointed when he says he just flew in from somewhere else, and that's where he got the water, at another airport. Drats! I relent and get a Dasani and go back to the holding area, and now I'm hot because we've walked nearly the length of the airport in search of the illusive Acquafina.
Finally, the time is at hand and Janet is there with me until they call my zone and I'm herded into the chute with all the other laptop-carrying-luggage-wheeling passengers on flight 938 to Laguardia. It is hot in the accordion chute as we inch along. The lady behind me is on the phone, telling someone she is boarding and will touch the plane with her right hand before stepping on for good luck. I think about doing it too as I'm pretty nervous now. At the end of the chute, a few bags are pulled out because they are too big and so checked late -- this flight is completely full so overhead space will be at a premium.
I forget all about touching the plane as I step onto the aircraft. There is a man standing there in a uniform I presume to be the pilot. He smiles cordially and says good morning. I make my way down the aisle between the sea of blue seats where some passengers are already seated. It occurs to me that I should check them all out so I let my eyes roam freely over them, looking for any suspicious characters among my skymates. My heart stops when I see the middle eastern couple, the lean, dark man with an agitated expression, the woman with her mauve colored veil, only her dark eyes visible and they dart about nervously. I know it is not politically correct to be suspicious of them but I don't feel like being politically correct. I don't want them on this flight.
I go on down the aisle, my heart racing but what else is there to do? I find my seat by the window, 29A. I fumble with my bags past a stately looking older woman who is sitting in the aisle seat. As yet the middle seat is empty. I find my seat belt and snap it on. Better to be ready! Puffs of cool air that look like dry ice fog from vents overhead. Thank god it's cool on this thing! People are stuffing bags into the overhead compartment. I keep my two bags with me at my seat. Good thing I'm short as there is not much room. I look ahead but the seats are tall and I can see only the tops of a few people's heads but mostly just navy blue seat backs.
Just now comes the third passenger and the stately well-dressed old woman gets up to let him in. He is a medium-framed young black man with smooth skin and a sweet Gregory Hines face. He doesn't say anything as he settles into his seat. I offer him a piece of gum which he declines. I wonder if he worries that I'll be one of those to talk his ear off the whole flight. Soon he has his headphones on and is writing in a small black journal.
I take out my little notebook too. The plane begins to move. We are backing out, a boat-like waddle. Now we stop with just a small bump, like when you put the t-shift into drive in an automatic car. Overhead they are talking about emergency exits, how to find the oxygen mask, etc. I am not listening. Do not inflate your vest... Oh God, we're bumping forward. They will sell me a pillow for $7. They've turned the lights off. We are bumping along, a sea of concrete with big jets parked here and there flanked by boxcar luggage trains. A white Ford Explorer looks like a bug scooting along in and out of the mammoth planes.
We yield to a small U.S. Airways craft taxiing by. We're moving again, the land boat bobbing along. Stopped again. I see the tower and the sprawling blue-topped buildings. There is a roar, a stead hum and the overhead vents are puffing out frosty air again. Prepare for takeoff. The buildings and tower are sliding by, giving way to trees lining the concrete shoreline. We are stopped again, bobbing a bit. Another plane waits behind us and another behind it. Moving again, turning right. It's all blacktop now. Bobbing along.
There is a huge roar. Oh shit, oh shit were are moving really fast. We are weaving and bobbing. Up, up and away. We are airborne. Rooftops drop away as we incline barreling upward, then a leveling off, the sensation like when I open my eyes when the swing is all the way back and I dare to look down. Not a pleasant sensation. Houses in rows, rooftops like teeth in the trees. Another "drop" and that cringing sensation again. We are banking left. The houses look like tile work. They are getting foggy. There are wisps of clouds whispering by. We are still inclined. It is still roaring. A fellow behind me hasn't shut up since we got on the plane. A child says excitedly, "Look how high we are!"
Gregory Hines still has his headphones on and is writing in his little black journal. I bet he is glad I am writing too and not talking his head off about this being my first flight and all.
The city is smoky below. We are banking into the clouds. The city is gone! The boat gently tilts. My ears pop. There is the city again, just blocks of brown and green with clouds flitting along. They are pretty white clouds in a sea of blue. Are we still climbing? I can not tell. The city is barely visible now, just faint pavers under the milky film of space. I am cool and comfortable. We can buy a beer for, what was it, $8? This information by way of the PA system again. I am so glad to be cool. We can take off our seatbelts and move about the aircraft. I am trying to put out of my mind the two Arab-looking people seated in first class. My ears pop again but it doesn't hurt. I can see the wing of the plane.
The steward is asking the people behind us if they want something to drink. Perhaps they looked thirsty....The plane shutters. Wisps of gray blue sky whizz past. It is bumpy.
"Beverage" he asks, an average-sized white, clean-shaven man in a pale blue shirt and navy pants. He looks like he would work in a bank. Gregory orders something. I peek and the city is barely visible. Now, nothing but clouds. Gregory is stenciling on what looks like a canvass bag. He has an orange juice iced drink in his hand as he works on the pull-down tray, a sheet from his journal lying on the tray between his hands.
He is stenciling, "WOW, you're going to" That's as far as he's gotten. It is all neat block letters. How does he do it so neat with the plane bumping and shuttering? The guy behind us is still yammering "I trained them all...husband...they are sixteen and eighteen...one was sleeping...," come snatches of his conversation. I pity the unlucky passenger who is seated beside him!
It is all gray outside the window. More bumps. Like a train speeding on the rails, jostling a bit, the 'car' rocking... There is the steady drone, the low hum. The waiter is delivering more drinks in little plastic cups. He has snake eyes that dart about and a slightly ruddy face. Oh, there is the city again. I wonder what city it is. Ribbons of road snake through black, solid patches. There are labyrinths with neatly arranged popcorn formations. It looks like we are nearly standing still. There is a river and what looks to be a stadium and tightly packed acres of popcorn, a clover leaf traffic pattern bordered by a diamond. Odd shaped pavers with sharp corners and lots of precise lines, the stones fit neatly together and broken by large swaths of charcoal-green. The pavers fade off into the distance and bleed into the clouds. They remind me of coves of a lake, snaking in and out of the landmass blocks of green-black. Peninsulas of crazy paving jut out into a blue-black river and now a shoreline. The plane gently rocks. We are over the ocean?
On the PA, they are rattling on about great deals on tickets, bonus miles... A huge waterway, more islands dotting the waterway. It feels like we are slowing down. More bumping on the rails. My ears feel funny. Can we already be landing? The pavers are getting larger and there's the clear pert white clouds again. The milky blue is clearing. It is very beautiful. It feels like we are moving very slowly. The pavers have nearly swallowed up the black-green swaths. It is a bright blue sky with many puffy white clouds. Another 20 minutes we'll be arriving at Laguardia...Beginning descent. More bumping. The Hudson River? I have to pee! A nuclear smokestack, that unmistakable shape. Tributaries like blood vessels snake into the pavers. a large swath of black green and a wobbly u-shaped lake. I really have to pee!
Back from the tiny bathroom. I could not get it to flush... Seat belt check. All electronic devices off. Return trays to upright locked position. I can see rooftops and swimming pools, bright aquamarine dots amid the rooftops. Must be a ritzy area. I can see shadows beneath the clouds, see the glimmer of sun on cars. Big puffy white clouds, a body of water with white wakes like jet trails. Those are boats! Rows and rows of buildings. Bumps. A baseball field. More baseball fields. More pools.
"Where are you from," Gregory asks. "Spartanburg, SC," I tell him. "I'm a freelance writer going to NY to meet a pianist and write a story about her. My name is Janice."
"I'm Archie," he says. He goes on to tell me that he's from Houston, Texas, where his family still lives. He is returning from a memorial for a friend in Dallas. He lives in Brooklyn and is an art director for Arnold, an international advertising agency. "I don't mess with the writers. I just let them do their thing," he says.
"I just wanna see that gecko run up Flo's dress," I tell him. He laughs heartily and then says Flo is one of theirs, out of their Boston office.
"I'm surprised there isn't advertising in bathroom stalls," I say, "not that I want there to be. Perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this..."
"Actually, they are already putting advertisements on urinal cakes (those blue deodorant disk things)," he says.
"What do you advertise on a urinal cake," I ask.
"Men things," he replies.
"Oh, okay. My boys would like that. Put a video game character on the cake and maybe they wouldn't miss so much," I say. It takes Archie a minute to realize what I mean. Then he starts laughing. "It would be way better than cheerios," I suggest.
He is quiet pleasant with an easy smile and a smooth way about him. We fall silent again. I don't tell him I've never flown before.
Making our way into New York City. Over water again. I can see the boats at a marina and dark swaths in the water. The tight brick work of rooftops. The big wing bounces, we're weaving and bobbing, the swing sensation again. Skyscrapers, two big bridges. This must be Manhattan. Banking. Touchdown, so sleek it is hard to know exactly when we went from bird to land boat again. Braking hard. We're almost stopped. We're here!
There is a rustle to grab bags from the overhead as passengers flood into the aisle. A few people get in front of me. I've lost Archie.
I have my laptop and my camera bag, which I have to
maneuver sideways down the aisle. The pilot stands at the cockpit door, cordially bidding us farewell. I step off the plane onto the
accordion chute and there is Archie, waiting for me.
"Just wanted to tell you it's good to meet you and I hope you have a fun time in New York," he says with his sweet smile.
"Thank you Archie. All those things I'd heard about New Yorkers being rude and all, see, you've proved that wrong already."
"I'm a transplant," he says chuckling as he makes his way up the chute and into the open airport.
I make my way to baggage claim and wait for my bag to pop out of the chute. Some redneck dude is hitting on a petite girl wearing a cowboy hat. "We are all cops, see, and we are in a motorcycle club and we come up here every year," he is telling her. He has a macho swagger in his denim
sleeveless shirt, which sports a rebel flag and a logo that says "Hogs." His strawberry
blond mustache makes his mouth look vulgar as he talks. He has
tattoos on his arms. I think he's disgusting and I wish he would shut up but he is trying to impress the girl and so yammers on as we all stand about
watching the yet-empty carousel. Then the bags begin to spill out and I am reminded of the famous scene on
I Love Lucy of Lucy working on the chocolate assembly line. Will I be able to grab my case before it gets past? I stand on the ready, now having elbowed my way past the cowboy, who is
considerably taller than me so he will be able to see just fine from the back of the pack, if he's paying attention.
I snag my bag and double check to be sure it is in fact mine. Yep, that's her. I head to the passenger pick-up area. There I see the middle eastern couple. I am feeling much more generous towards them now, now that we are safely on the ground again. Then I see the grandmother in the bright blue pants being greeted by an open armed young woman with a considerable girth. The new grandchild hasn't been born yet. I call Pilley. They are five minutes away she says. Traffic is terrible.
"How was your flight," she asks.
"It was great," I say. "I met this really cute guy. He was so nice..."
"Are you having dinner with him tonight then," she teases.
I call Jeff to tell him I'm in New York.
Pilley and her husband, Jay, soon arrive and we are off, merging into traffic, into the jaunty, throbbing rhythm that is New York City.
