The Only Way To Fly!

I didn't yet tell you about my trip to New Orleans to attend the National Education Association Representative Assembly conference. I had gone for the first time to such a conference last year in San Diego. This year I was elected by my peers to be a state delegate to the NEA convention for two years. This year it was in New Orleans and next year it will be in Chicago.

I had lots of fun in New Orleans (although not as much fun as I had wanted...), but what I want to focus on was my flight to and from New Orleans. That seems to be the story I've been telling over and over.

To start with, my flight out of Seattle was delayed 2.5 hours. Right from the get-go I was behind schedule. My flight was to fly out of Seattle to Salt Lake City, where I was slated to have a 2.5 relaxing (if not boring) layover before getting a flight to New Orleans. But that was not to be.

As I said, my first flight out of Seattle was late. When I finally boarded the plane (a small plane that only had about 20 rows with two seats on each side of the aisle), I asked the flight attendant why there had been a delay. She honestly (but wrongly) informed me that the plane had had an "aborted take off" in Houston. Aborted take off? What does that mean? Did the plane actually begin to take off and leave the ground, and then had to return to earth? Or did something happen before they even tried to take off? Those details are important. But more important was: Has this plane flown successfully since then?

The flight attendant assured me that the plane had flown successfully from Houston to Seattle. I felt a bit better. However, given our delay in taking off, our arrival in Salt Lake City was approximately a half hour after my scheduled flight had left for New Orleans, and there wasn't any other flight to take that day. Delta gave me a $400 ticket voucher, a $6 dinner voucher, and put me up in a hotel for the night. I spent more than $6 on my turkey sandwich and lemonade...And the hotel was not that great...I also cried a bit because I was by myself in Salt Lake City instead of with my teacher friends in New Orleans eating Gumbo.

The next day, early, I caught my new flight that was to go from SLC to Atlanta. The plane was there without incident and boarded on time. I was sitting between two guys; the younger one was on his way to Pensacola FL to do work pertaining to the BP oil spill. That was interesting, but he was a quiet guy who didn't talk much. The other guy was a frequent flyer for business returning home to Atlanta. He was a reassuring traveler and somewhat calmed my flying fears. But I was travel-weary. And a nervous flyer. (In fact, last year when we all flew home from California, I insited on holding both my daughters' hands at take off. Stella wondered whose hand I'd hold on this trip...) The trip was a smooth one for the most part, except for landing in Atlanta. It was very bumpy. I was told that it is always bumpy flying into or out of Atlanta, and those in the know try to fly out of Atlanta in the early morning or late part of the day. By the time we landed and I got off the plane, I had a very short window of time to get to my connecting flight to New Orleans. I can now say I've been to Georgia, although I only went through the airport...at a fast pace. I did make my connecting flight, much to my relief. It was another small plane that seemed to just hit every mysterious bump in the air. It really was the worst flight ever. Eventhough it was only an hour flight. There were many times I was sure we'd be knocked right out of the air.

But we weren't. We made it one piece, and I got to New Orleans. I told myself that if my luggage made it, all would be forgiven. And sure enough, when I went to baggage claim, there was my suitcase with its "I Love Baggage Handlers!" tag. Not bothering with the line at the NEA shuttle booth, I just grabbed my suitcase and headed out to get a taxi. I made it to New Orleans, navigating through three unfamiliar airports on my own. I was quite proud.

But I haven't yet even gotten to the "only way to fly" part of my travel story. It happened on my return flight. I flew Delta airlines on my way down, but for my return journey I flew Continental (*note* Continental Airlines were on time with no problems). I flew out of New Orleans at 7:20 in the morning, so had gotten very little sleep the night before, and had gotten up early to get to the airport. My first part of the flight home was to fly from NO to Houston TX. This was just a one hour flight. I was nervous, though, because I only had about a half hour to make my connecting flight in Houston. After my recent experience, I fully expected to miss it.

The plane I was in to Houston was the smallest yet on my journey. Again there were only about 20 rows with two seats on one side of the aisle, and a single seat on the other side. I was in a single seat. In the last row. I had assumed that since we were in a smaller plane we wouldn't fly as high, but I was wrong. We took off and climbed and climbed, and banked at crazy angles. Finally we went through a layer of clouds, and it was bright and sunny. This is good, I thought. I could see land below, which always comforts me. Let's just stay here. But no, the pilot thought he knew better. He could go higher. And he did. He climbed up through the second layer of clouds. Now I couldn't see land below me-just clouds. That makes me nervous. But we did arrive safely in Houston on time, and it being such a small plane, it didn't take long to empty out (and now I can also say I've been to Texas). I did have to book it to my connecting flight, which involved follwing signs (Is gate D in Concourse D, I wondered.) and getting onto a train. But I successfully found my correct gate just as they were finishing boarding.

I found my aisle, and since I had a window seat and the other two passengers were already there, they had to move for me, forcing me to apologize and smile. As we settled back into our seats and put on our seatbelts, I began to chat with the pleasant looking gal next to me. She appeared to be in her mid to later 50s. She had a heavy Southern accent. Turns out she was from Mississippi and was headed to Seattle to welcome her son back from Iraq. As we chatted, I told her how nervous I get flying. She said she does too, and that's why she has Zanax (sp?).

She cast a glance at the big guy sitting next to her, and whispered to me, "Do you think he's a cop?" She decided no, or decided he wouldn't notice, and she pulled out her prescription container and shook out a pill. "Here," she said. "Take this. It will relax you."

I looked at the little harmless pill, and debated for a second. It seemed to go against everything I had been taught. But I was tired and nervous, and this was a long flight of 3.5 hours. So I took it. I didn't even have water. It was so little I could just swallow it with a minimum of bitter taste. Soon we took off, right on schedule. I was still nervous, and didn't really feel like I was feeling any effects. The plane (a 737 this time) took off and climbed and climbed. I still felt every bump, and when the engine sound would change, I would notice. But soon we seemed to level off. And I was tired. Really, really tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. And the Zanax was kicking in. My tray was down, as I had been given a light breakfast. I just laid my head in my arms onto my tray, and fell asleep. When I woke, I could see that we were flying over very dry looking country. I got out my flight plan map to try to determine where we were. I thought maybe we were flying over Wyoming, as much of that is dry country, but I searched in vain for the Tetons, seeing nothing. As I still pondered where exactly we were, the pilot makes an announcement that we will be descending soon! Really? We are already in Washington? Wow-I slept the whole way home. The dry countryside I was seeing was Eastern Washington, and soon Rainier was visible. Home sweet home. Landing is the best; it feels good to come down to the ground.

And Zanax? I'm thinking that it is the only way to fly!