You know how that spiel before take off assumes there might be some adult on the plane who, by a strange series of coincidences, has never used a seatbelt before? Well, that guy was sitting right behind me. He was an elderly Coratian, as far as we could tell, because he spoke no common European language, and one of the more linguistically dextrose in the area ventured a guess at his origin.
And though the seat-belt instructions were repeated for the millionth time to a plane full of people who were well-versed in fitting tab A into slot B, the one for whom the information was intended soaked none of it up. It took the flight attendant a good three minutes to direct him from the aisle how to get the flipping seat belt sorted. I have no idea how the guy got from the Balkans to San Francisco without encountering a seat belt—maybe he came on a ship. But seriously, what is the point of that seat belt presentation if the one person in the audience who really needs the information misses it?
I sat next to a seven-year-old girl whose mother was assigned to the seat occupied at the time by the Balkan gentleman, and she tried with no success to communicate her desire to switch seats with him so she and her daughter could sit together. That was just way beyond the language barrier, but the day was saved by a good-natured fellow who was in the aisle seat next to the daughter. He agreed to switch his aisle seat and thus got to sit next to the old timer, who seemed to have found a preview of heaven when he discovered some time later that Lufthansa serves free wine with the meals. Each time an attendant who looked like she MIGHT have some wine passed, he held up his plastic cup and grunted forcibly. When the wine refill guy finally did come by, that cup went up when the server was five rows away, and by the time he reached our area, the raised quarter-full cup was being shaken aggressively as if afraid it might get passed by. The attendant didn’t care for that impatience, but his admonition to be patient fell of deaf ears. I must admit that the MORE WINE NOW grunting was a trifle disturbing. That old guy loved him some red wine, and even demanded it instead of orange juice when they served the omelet breakfast. Someone had to go to the back galley to get it for him.
Lufthansa offered a good opportunity to practice being an intrepid traveler. The first movie was Deception, I think. I would like to have watched it, but I was flying in a 1980s era plane that still used those dual-prong headphones to hear the movie playing on the single CRT TVs distributed around the aisles. When I opened my sealed headphones, the furry covers flew out somewhere onto the floor. The woman in front of me was reclined and snoring, and there was so little leg room I could not reach the floor, even if I could’ve seen where those pads ended up. Even typing on my laptop was a challenge, because of the acute angle of the screen to the keyboard. I was reminded of the room they put Clouseau in at the Swiss hotel, where the sink is hanging over the tiny bathtub. I was careful not to drop anything else I’d like to see again before the end of the flight or it would be lost for the duration.
This flight reminded me of my first trips to Europe, which seemed to go on forever with me trapped in a tiny space and unable to get comfortable. I could see three different 12 or 13 inch TVs with the movie playing, and each was a wildly different color set. On the one closest to my seat, everyone was green; they looked like aliens. The middle one showed everyone as purple, so they all looked like Barney. The one in the distance had the best color, but it was so far away my iPhone screen seemed bigger.
On my last big trip, I started off on Air Canada, and boy did that spoil me for Coach travel, now that our days of regular Business Class are merely fond memories. Even back in the budget seats, I had enough legroom to work on my computer after the person in front had reclined, and also had room to move a bit so my ass wouldn’t fall asleep. The Air Canada seat had some padding, rather than seeming to be a piece of thin fabric stretched over three-quarter inch plywood. I had a DVR in the seat back in front of me with a choice of 8 or 9 movies that I could pause, stop and start at any time. There was a powered USB port for my iPhone so I didn’t have to worry about battery life. And there was a power outlet in the seat, too, so I could compute away as desired. What a comparison to Lufthansa, which made me try to put a positive spin on the situation by thinking of how much it must’ve sucked to be in steerage on a month-long Atlantic crossing. It seemed like steerage at times because the temperature on the plane was so uneven. As we flew along, the sun at high altitude was baking my side of the plane and the heat radiated through as if we were re-entering the atmosphere. The other side of the plane was nice and cool, but mine was cooking. People were fanning themselves and exuding a wide range of human odors. But if they’d turned up the AC, the other side of the plane would’ve frozen, I guess. It was like a human microwave experiment. Not very pleasant.
But in spite of the discomfort, the flight really wasn’t too bad. My iPhone’s battery lasts a long time with the telephony turned off, and I got all caught up on podcasts. The girl next to me, Jena, fell asleep several times in some pretty odd postures, usually with her feet firmly against my leg and her head in her mother’s lap. In the old days that would’ve driven me crazy. But for some reason I feel right at home now with a child’s feet invading my personal space. She was a nice little girl and I remember how long a 10-hour flight can seem when you’re young. I was glad that fatherhood had helped prepare me to make her flight a little easier to deal with.
I’d thought that the girl and her mother were returning home to Frankfurt, but they mentioned as we were landing that they were going on to Hamburg. So I guess instead of being Frankfurters, they were Hamburgers. Bad dum, tush!
It’s drizzling here in Frankfurt as I sit in my little Holiday In Express room. The Tour de France is starting on Eurosport, strange to watch it in German. They just interviewed Lance Armstrong, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the German translation. I have a new appreciation for the Tour photographers. Racing photography is tricky enough when you aren’t riding on the back of a motorcycle!
So if I get a break in the weather I’ll explore the area a bit, but the main thing is to get on local time because tomorrow I’m off to the Nurburgring. Can’t wait to see that hallowed ground with my own eyes!
