Everyone loves taking a vacation—the thrill of escaping keyboards and cubicles to explore new places. I’d love vacations, too, if it weren’t for the luggage. Selective suitcase stuffing is not a talent I possess. To spend the day at a nudist colony, I’d still need six bags.
Last month, I headed to the great Northwest on the cheapest flight I could find. Cheap means you may have to flap your arms to conserve fuel. That’s fine, but there’s a 40-pound weight limit on stuff you can’t live without. That’s not fine. Go one ounce over and you’re out another $25. My lifelong ambition is to zip up a suitcase containing only 39.999 pounds of personal cargo.
Like always, I failed miserably, but I was ready for every climatic and social contingency. It might be hot out there. Then again, it might snow. Maybe I’d need a sundress and flip-flops or a down parka and thermals. I couldn’t risk waking up in an orange-polka-dot mood to find I’d only packed purple stripes, so I brought everything. And footwear has to match. One can’t inflict hiking boots, sandals or tennis shoes that clash on the unsuspecting Northwest. (I didn’t want them thinking badly of South Carolinians.)
Of course, the airline nailed me for the extra bucks at check-in. And I was OK with that until I met Wendy, who was hauling the world’s bulkiest baggage through security.
“How’s my carry-on supposed to fit through that little X-ray thingy?” she scowled.
“I’m not sure that steamer trunk is a carry-on,” I said meekly.
Wendy insisted it was, because—get this—she bought her ticket online, which somehow entitled her to bring an elephant onboard if she felt like it. Her ensuing battle with the security folks took about 20 minutes, much to the delight of every shoeless, weary person waiting behind her. Wendy is probably the reason we rarely see airline ads anymore. They hate the passengers.
It’s understandable. We’re needy. We can’t figure out what zone we’re in and pace around restricted areas waiting for the potty because we can’t see the microscopic “occupied” sign from 12 rows back. We interrupt the flight crew’s coffee breaks and don’t want to turn off our cell phones just because texting might make the plane crash.
Our flight crew’s attitude reflected the times. Gone are the innocent, calorie-deprived prom queens who used to patrol the aisles. Today, we have battle-hardened, saber-toothed Vikings who have logged too many frequent-flyer miles to put up with our nonsense. The preflight briefings have been downsized accordingly.
“Listen up. You people flying with us today are in luck,” a voice booms. “If you don’t like the service, this plane has eight exits. Pick one.”
So much for the “emergency landing” instructions, which were immediately overshadowed by a more urgent warning: “And don’t let me catch you sleeping on my tray tables. They’re for the dinners we used to serve. Do not make me come smack you upside the back of your head.”
The threat sounded like it was coming from an angry mama wielding a large wooden paddle, so everybody complied. That’s everybody but Wendy, who was reclining comfortably across three tray tables. Before we’d even left the gate, she’d alienated most of the passengers and all of the crew.
Careful, Wendy. This plane has eight exits. And the flight attendants seem eager to show you where they are.
Jan A. Igoe continues to marvel at people who explore the world with a single backpack that can’t possibly hold more than one pair of heels. Share your travel tips with her here.