F. Theresa Has Left the House . . . Again

Status: Quo Minus

by F. Theresa Gillard

BOSTON, MA—(Weekly Hubris)—10/25/10—So, here I am, sitting in Boston’s Logan International Airport almost exactly one year after my last, work-related Santa Fe, New Mexico trip. (Do you remember that tale?)

I’m waiting to set out on this year’s work-related trip to Isle of Palms, SC.

As you know, I’m from South Carolina and, even though I have never heard of this place, evidently, it’s right outside of Charleston (a good four hours from my hometown, Anderson) where we’ll be flying this afternoon.

Once again, my boss, Beth, strongly suggested that this BFACA/ADEA conference was a must-do. And, she added, “Try to relax.”

OK, but relaxing is something I tend just “to happen upon.” After stressing due to knowing that I have to fly, going through security and anticipating the probability of a very-much-personally-violating screening machine that literally shows every single body-fat roll that I’ve deliciously acquired, I find myself sitting here at Legal’s Seafood sampling an item from the “Breakfast Cocktails” menu.

Breakfast Cocktails!

That’s nice. I don’t even feel guilty (it’s all of 8 a.m.) as I’m consuming an item from the breakfast menu, albeit a calming elixir. And, due to my traveling companions’ youthful appearance, we get carded. Yeah, she asked for my I.D., too.

Now, on my second elixir, served by Legal Seafood’s licit Lauren, I believe that I may be ready actually to step into that US Airways cramped, not-first-class cabin and take my seat: 23F. Sherri, gracious as ever, has agreed to give up her window seat for me.

By now, the security experience is a distant memory. My traveling companions, Sherri and Christina, are also enjoying their second elixir, whilst also enjoying their other breakfast items: of eggs, home fries and toast. Toast that Sherri mistook for French toast—she soaked it in maple syrup and then realized that it was just plain, if very thick . . . toast.

They’re discussing someone who has gonorrhea. Say, what? Those two, you never know about their conversations. Meanwhile, I’m checking out our surroundings.

Airports are always interesting places. Lauren must have some tales of her own. Here you have a group of people who will never all be in the same place at the same time again. They’re all heading somewhere to something for some reason. You are forced into close proximity to these fellow travelers: anything could transpire.

Whilst you sit in the waiting area (loading dock), you look around and choose the people you’d rather not be in too close proximity to for two-plus hours. You make your choices based on size and apparent sanity.

For me, I’d rather not spend my entire trip having a conversation. I hate flying. My ears act up during the entire flight. I totally empathize with the screaming infants. I’m there with the screamers. The elevation reeks havoc on my eardrums. Many times, I’m wishing that I were a child so that I could scream indiscriminately, too. It hurts that much.

Did I mention that I hate flying?

As a matter of fact, many times even on terra firma I wish I could scream, laugh and cry with reckless abandon like an infant. It never fails that several times throughout my work day, I am tempted to act just like a child (everyone else does).

For this purpose, my wonderful Aunt Corine got me a Hoops and YoYo panic button from the Hallmark store. When pressed, it screeches, “Stay calm. Stay Calm. Panic! Panic! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!” You should really get one for your desk, too. It’s a great therapeutic device.

We’ve finally made our way to our seats. Christina has the aisle. Sherri is in the middle and, as promised, I have the window seat. Now, if you ever flown even once, you know that it’s desirable if not mandatory to always have either the aisle or the window seat.

The middle seat sucks. The middle seat is scary. It’s claustrophobic. It’s un-accept-able. There (in the middle) you’ll be without an armrest, since the travelers on either side of you seem to have two arms that each requires an armrest. This, even though they have the choice seats. (Really, the only choice seats on US Airways flights are in First Class which, on most flights, you are forced to walk past—such a tease.)

In Economy, you will be subject to any/all of the following: bad breath (emanating from both sides); frequent elbow jabs; stupid, stupid questions; stranger sleeper drool; lounging-back seat in front of you (leaving you subject to that person’s breath, too), etc.

Did I mention that I hate flying?

Seriously, make sure that you do NOT get a middle seat. Pay the extra ten bucks if you have to. It will be well worth it.

I am now quite comfy. Mainly because I know my fellow travelers. I don’t have to cringe at every touch. Generally, though, I travel alone. Most of my travelling consists of going back and forth from Boston to South Carolina and North Carolina (a little Georgia, too).

When I do fly, I sometimes wonder where all the Black people are. This flight, for example, must have all of three Black people, including me (it may be two—I only saw one other while boarding). I don’t know why I wonder; I just do.

It probably has more to do with distracting myself from the realization that I’m on this how-many-ton airplane at an I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what elevation. I understand that I am expected just to sit in this sardine tin and pretend those emergency instructions demonstrated prior to take-off might be of some use.

You know what? That sort of thinking is not going to help much and my trip goal is “to relax.”

Alright, this is a two-hour flight connecting through Charlotte, NC (another of my favorite places) to Charleston. Our connecting flight is a mere 30 minutes. And, I have to admit that I am somewhat assuaged upon seeing a very comforting sign right outside of Charleston’s baggage claim, “Taxi Stand,” nonexistent last year at Santa Fe’s airport.

But, just like Santa Fe, it takes about a year for our luggage to appear. I query Sherri regarding our final destination, Isle of Palms. Of course, Sherri has no idea how far away Isle of Palms is from Charleston. I am of the belief that it is far enough away to warrant a rental car.

Since our luggage may never come, I check at the car rental counters and find that not a one of them has an available rental. Hey, no problem; at least there’s a taxi stand. We make our way out there and stand in line for a taxi (a passenger van) and listen to the taxi stand lady explain how the fare works.

It was truly funny. I mean, I’m pretty sure she was speaking English, but all I got was something about the third person costing an additional $12 on top of the fare. What? I guess we ain’t in Boston anymore. Cause in Boston, the fare remains the same no matter how many people you pile into the cab.

Like we have a choice, right? This trip has just started. If this one follows the usual F.- Theresa-has-left-her-house tale, you’re going to be in for a tall one.

We’re taking our $70-plus taxi ride. Sherri, Christina and I may have one those what happens in Isle of Palms stays in Isle of Palms stories on the way.

So, you may want to stay tuned . . . .