Photo by Vinnie Cammarano
Key Points
Everything about air travel used to be grand and exciting — except the flying.
Admittedly, I got off to a bad start on Trip One, bouncing through a Louisiana thunderstorm in a propeller-driven wind-up toy — thus becoming one of the few people able to honestly say they were happy to arrive at Fort Polk.
Amazingly and unluckily, every flight after that got progressively worse: There was a Piedmont antique rattletrap that made moaning noises and appeared to fly sideways at tree-top level; a cigarette-smoky aluminum tube that apparently had to dodge mountains because it couldn’t climb over them; and 14 or 15 hours on a converted Flying Tigers cargo plane that possibly flew through a typhoon.
I came to dread being in the air, but I loved going to the airport.
In those days, it was a cool and sophisticated feeling place, filled with well-dressed people who were either going places or who had arrived in life. You wouldn’t be surprised to see Peter Lawford chatting with Angie Dickinson while they sipped cognac.
Parking was convenient, everybody was courteous and I don’t recall ever standing in a line of more than four or five people. The price was right, too. That aluminum tube from Knoxville to Seattle cost $95, marked down from $125 for some reason.
It was a delightful experience — except for the flying.
That was then. Now flights are so smooth that I do watercolor paintings in my seat without fear of smudging. We have 30 or 40 movies and games on our personal little TV sets, a flight map to show us our progress, and all the freshly recirculated air we care to breathe.
It would be a delightful experience — except for everything other than the flying. Perversely, the smoother it has gotten up there in the sky, the bumpier it has become down here on the ground.
Now the part I dread is getting to and through the terminal. Parking is awful, lines are worse and the terminal itself resembles a homeless encampment. There are too many people for the satisfaction of any one of them to matter much. It’s almost like they are doing this on purpose, making things so bad that they can charge extra for what ought to be basic services.
I have grown accustomed to being irritated, inconvenienced, dehumanized and gouged, but the latest wrinkle caught me by surprise: baggage fees. The first is $45, the second $55. If you are going on a trip for a week, taking clothes with you is now considered an upgrade.
It will cost more to send my suitcase and my golf bag from Florida to North Carolina than it once did to send my duffel bag and myself across the continent. I’ll have to put up with it, but I do have my limits.
If the flight attendant announces, “in the event of loss of cabin pressure, you’ll need a credit card to get an oxygen mask,” I’m taking my business back to the bus station.