If there is one thing the holidays have taught me, it is that commercial travel is perhaps one of the most unifying and simultaneously divisive forces of our era, especially during the holiday season. It is a far different thing than packing up your car and driving the four, five or even six hours home to see your family. In the car you are usually alone; you are on your own time. You can play the CDs you want and stop at the rest stops and greasy fast food chains you would normally never consider if you were in the company of others. You can be yourself.
But on an airplane, you are constantly on someone else’s schedule. You and the 100 other people are just trying to make it somewhere safely, whether it be to see their families or to escape somewhere tropical. You are all in the same boat — or at least the same vessel. You have to board when the pilot wants you to board, and if there are delays you better deal with it.
This shared experience can create a bond between some passengers. Some people get to know the strangers sitting next to them. They chat it up and find out each other’s destinations. They banter back and forth charmingly about the in-flight movie. The flight might go a little smoother for them knowing they have a friend.
I am not one of these people. It’s unfortunate. I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but travel makes me cranky. I know, cranky is a word used largely when referring to toddlers, but it is about the only word that can give an accurate picture of my demeanor when I have to get on an airplane. Let me tell you why I hate flying.
One: You usually have to get up early. I’m a tired person. I value my sleep. And having someone tell me I need to be at a gigantic terminal three hours before my flight or they’re going to leave me and destroy all my holiday dreams doesn’t sit well with me. I paid good money for this ticket, sir. Allow me the dignity of hitting snooze a few times.
Two: Airport food sucks. The hungrier I get, the angrier I get. I also have an extremely snobby coffee addiction, which I realize I don’t have the money for but will dig for loose change to supplement. Very rarely does airport coffee satisfy my needs. And although I’ll come out of pocket for coffee, I will rarely do the same for food with ingredients I am not completely sure of. To be forced to pay $8 for a fast food hamburger patty is basically torture.
Three: I am huge. Sitting squashed between strangers with my knees pressed dangerously into the seat in front of me and the width of my body threatening to overtake both armrests, I am uncomfortable, to say the least. I dare the person in front of me to try and put his or her seat back. I’ll put a stop to that, 5-foot-8-inch woman in heels trying to take a cozy little nap.
In short, I’m basically a bratty toddler on commercial transport and would prefer to drive or take the train any day. At least there I can pick the CD or watch my own movies. Forget whoever said the journey is the destination. On a plane, the destination is the destination. The journey I’d rather skip.
Simone’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at s.egwu@cavalierdaily.com.
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