Traveling with my spouse was supposed to be a perk of retirement, not an airport obstacle course followed by a torture chamber at 35,000 feet.
Alas, air travel has emerged as a necessary evil to visit relatives, go on vacation, or visit an exotic destination.
If this sounds like whining about my fortunate standing in life, I am guilty as charged.
When Mary joined me in retirement last June, the question of travel became “Why not?’’ rather than “we need to keep saving for retirement and our children.’’ As our investment manager said, “You’ve reached the fourth quarter with a lead. It’s time to celebrate on the sidelines.’’ So we have.
The trouble with air travel is that over the last 20 years the airlines have shrunk the width and legroom on seats. They want to cram more seats in and compete for low fares. Travelers are bearing the brunt. At 5-foot-4, Mary is fine. At 6-4, I simply whine. My knees are pressed against the seat ahead of me. I can’t move.
Still, Amsterdam was wonderful. The 7-hour flight from an aisle seat, despite a mild hamstring pull, was made tolerable when we watched 40 percent of a city of 1.2 million whiz by on their bicycles. We enjoyed the cathedral of Cologne, Germany, with its 515-foot twin spires and the cobblestone streets and eclectic shops of Strasbourg, France.
Then the bottom fell out.
We learned our Air France plane had been switched for the 7-hour flight back to the states. Rather than sitting together near the rear, we split into two rows. I was assigned a center seat.
This becomes a burden for a 76-inch, mildy claustrophobic man. Tolstoy wrote: ‘’The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.’’ Easy for him to say; he stood 5-feet-11. My legs, still taut from running up and down the basketball court five days per week, need to stretch and squirm. Patience? I have no none. Warrior? I’d get kicked out of F Troop.
The guy in the aisle seat, a Darryl Strawberry doppelganger, was a prince. Although 6-2 himself, he switched seats for me during half the trip. He was a huge college basketball fan who wanted to know the ins and outs of running a newspaper sports department. To stretch my legs, I made three runs to the restroom, where I let everybody go ahead of me. When the woman in a nearby seat became airsick, I fetched her a cup of water. Anything to get out of my seat and kill time. By the grace of God, we pulled into Atlanta with minimal discomfort. My parting gift was to contract a case of Covid.
I assured myself that things had to go better on this trip to Phoenix; they didn’t.
De-icing the plane cost us 30 minutes. When we ran to our connection in Charlotte, arriving at takeoff, the airline had given away our seats to standby passengers. Bummer. We had seats with extra legroom for the 5-hour flight.
We endured a 2-hour wait for the next flight, knowing we had been re-assigned to center seats again. I made sure to approach the counter to check on seat assignments and beg for an exit-aisle or bulkhead seat. “We can’t do anything,’’ the male attendant barked. “The plane is full.’’
I came back just before boarding to ask again. The courteous woman tore stubs from our tickets and said she would need some time to check when the male attendant interrupted: “The plane is full.’’
“I heard you, but can you let me make my sales pitch over here before you crush my attempt?’’
I stewed for 30 minutes, dreading a center seat, but something must have worked. Perhaps the ghost of Amelia Earhart interceded. We were the last zone to load, but we were assigned new seats – in exit rows! Hallelujah.
Phoenix was a joy. We provided relief to my wife’s cousin and husband who had been nursing a 92-year-old mother since a stroke on Christmas Eve. We hiked, we watched the spring-training opener between the Cincinnati Reds and Cleveland Guardians, and we were fascinated by the American Indian art and artifacts at the Heard Museum.
Los Angeles was even better. Our son took us on tours of Los Angeles – movies at Quentin Tarantino’s New Beverly Cinema, shopping and dinner at Universal CityWalk, an afternoon at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures during Oscar week. It was gratifying to see our son thriving in his elements.
The 5-hour flight from LA to JFK seemed effortless as we shared our own row. It was almost too good to be true. It wasn’t.
We taxied to the far end of one terminal, then had 15 minutes to reach the opposite end of another wing. It was the last flight that night to Rochester. Who wants to sleep on an airport bench? My job was to rush to the gate first, then wait for Mary.
O.J. Simpson never ran through an airport this fast in a Hertz commercial. It was 10:30 p.m. when I reached the gate and the sign blinked, “Boarding Closed.’’ The door remained open and the attendant waved me into the jetway. Mary arrived huffing and puffing about 30 seconds later. One minute after we sat down, the plane doors closed.
It was a wonderful relief … until we learned our luggage didn’t make the flight. It took three days for it to arrive.
The Wright Brothers didn’t have to endure all this. Orville was 5-9; Wilbur 5-10. At Kitty Hawk, they probably carried on their luggage.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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