I vividly remember my first flight. Chattanooga to Memphis, in the late 1960s. My oldest sister had moved there, and my mom and I went to see her. As a kid, I was fascinated. The plane was just like I had seen in the commercials: smiling stewardesses fetching me food and drinks, and space age transportation much like the Jetsons cartoons.
The ride was smooth, the landing was easy, and everyone was nice. I could get used to this.
My favorite flights were the long rides to the West Coast. Wide aisles, good meals, and a movie. Sure, there was occasional turbulence, mysterious delays, crying babies and annoying passengers. But on the whole, it was a rewarding getaway to a different world.
Then came September 11, 2001. The attack on America forever changed how we fly. No more easy check-ins. Never again would we show up at the airport 45 minutes before take-off, hand off our luggage, show the attendant our ticket, and hop on the plane.
New security measures dictated we arrive several hours early, wait in long lines, set off screening alarms with our knee replacements, be forced to take off our shoes and belts, and get questioned about our bottle of shampoo.
If our flight got canceled, and we were fortunate enough to find an actual airline representative at the airport, we were instructed to text their customer service department, which was no longer staffed by humans.
I used to think of a plane ride as a time to unplug and unwind. The big bird was taking me to a place where I could leave my troubles behind. Too often in recent years, the flying experience has just created new problems and stress.
Let’s start with the boarding process. At one time, there was a simple line. Show your ticket, board the plane, and find your seat. Some airline genius figured out a more efficient way to load the plane was to allow families with children, or people with physical impairments on first. No argument there. Then your entry was determined by zone. The first class and priority passengers boarded first, loading the plane front to back. This served two purposes. One, ensuring the highest paying, most frequent flyers had first access to overhead bins. Second, ensuring that the first class passengers could watch the rest of us poor slobs struggle down the aisle with our cheap luggage while they sipped imported wine. It was all for naught. Many flyers ignored the zones and boarded first anyway.
I try to follow the rules, so I would meticulously measure my carry-on bag to ensure it would fit in the overhead compartment. I soon learned that these rules were meant to be broken. It is both entertaining and frustrating to watch people attempt to squeeze a full-size suitcase into a space half its size. Meanwhile, the next forty people in line huff, puff, and roll their eyes, knowing there will likely be no space left for their size-appropriate bag.
In the good old days of air travel, I would take a window seat, grab a magazine and look forward to meeting my seatmate. More often than not, this person was friendly and talkative, and we should share stories of where we were from and where we were going.
Today, I’m more likely to share a tight space with a disgruntled middle-seat passenger wearing earbuds, who has no interest in saying hello, and is more than happy to hog the armrest with no apologies. As a bonus, my new friend has brought along a snack. It’s a mix of onion rings and enchiladas. It’s an aroma that will stick with me, so to speak.
I have managed to avoid flying for the past few years, but I do have an upcoming flight. I’m looking forward to being somewhere else for a few days. But the trip itself no longer seems like “the friendly skies” of my youth. It’s more like, “Get here early, prepare to wait a few hours, let us shake you down, and then prepare for a tight squeeze. And oh yes, bring some extra cash in case we come up with some new fees.”
