International air travel is one of my least favorite activities. It’s unpleasant and down right painful when you take into account sitting for hours on end. People smell, your lips chap, your gastrointestinal track has fits, your ankles swell, your head is muddled. It’s all generally not good- all for the convenience of being able to get to the other side of the earth in just a day.
Today’s flight is no exception to crappy international air travel. As usual, my flight was delayed for nearly two hours. While waiting I was told that United was basically unsure of when the flight would actually take off. Being my usual irritated self, I expressed my discontent possibly a little too aggressively. I didn’t really expect anyone to respond. Well, oh well.
 |
| United responds to tweets apparently... |
For the plane itself, I doled out an extra $200 to sit in a coveted Economy Plus exit row. Yep, enough to buy a family food for a month in many places- just to have the ability to unbend my legs for 13 straight hours- to hurt less during this not very inspiring journey, the end of which will culminate in my dreaded return to work. I live in a different world than the majority of people on earth. The world opens its doors to me- I have the right passport and it’s financially feasible. I can go just about anywhere when many people can and will never leave their own situations- never have access to where they actually want to be. Borders are less formidable for me. That is our international system- the current state of the global-political economy- the world order that I work for directly. Keep the sea lanes open. Or, in other words, keep the money flowing between the certain “right” people and the “right” places.
Air travel is a great people-watching experience. You can really get in touch with your stereotyping and judging game. Sitting right next to the access or the lavatories grants me a front row view of people in some of their greatest moments of need...while I watch them jealously regard my stretched out legs, attempting to not step on my feet. But I feel justified in claiming every inch of this $200 worth of precious space. I observe them all: The elderly Japanese woman. The overly attentive mother. The curiously dressed European male. The haggard flight attendant with pursed lips who acts deeply offended if you ask for a cup of water. It’s all such a lovely parade of humanity. How many times have they gotten up? How long do they stay? Will they choose the lavatory that now has a long trail of toilet paper coming out of it because it unrolled and no one bothered to pick it up? Who will be the person who picks it up? What are their motivations? Yes, these are the thoughts that plague me as my ass goes numb in my seat and I wonder when the next “feeding” of the passengers will occur.
Then I wake up from a hazy snooze, my head rolled onto my shoulder, neck bent in an awful position and I wonder if I’ll be able to pick my head up. The tops of my feet are puffing out of my ballet flats, my sinuses are going crazy and irritating film covers my teeth. At this point, I am cowed into submission and will probably do anything that anyone tells me in order to make the dreaded experience end. Ah, first world problems.
And finally, Tokyo. You stampede with the herd to immigration and customs- I got to stand in line twice after filling out my immigration form in an unsuitable color of pen but, other than that, it is easy to cross into Japan.
“Passengers coming from Sierra Leone, Liberia, and Guinea please divert over here.” Nope, not me. But how can you be so sure that I have not been exposed to Ebola the past couple days of airport travel?
Finally it’s the Narita Express train to Yokohama. I have been riding this train back and forth from Narita for over a year now and the same commercials still play- the man with a thick eyebrows and a mustache dressed like a young school girl advertising wifi. JR Line and the Police Department would still like you to know that they are on high alert for something suspicious (and they have been for the entire time I have been riding this train).
 |
| High Alert!! |
What does “high alert” mean? When are they not at “high alert?” These are the things I ponder as my backside spends another hour and a half sitting.
And tomorrow: work. Ugh, my reward for completing this lovely journey...
No comments:
Post a Comment