Traveling With The Walenda’s

I must have looked a fright by the time I reached the front of the line at the ticket counter. The oh-so-smart clerk was moonlighting as a comedian. I presented it with my ticket, and was asked if I had had a difficult weekend. My reply was something to the effect of “Not entirely, just today.” He replied that my day wasn’t over yet. It seems that this was the United counter. My ticket was for United Express, which was three terminals to the right. Do you have any notion of how many miles it is between terminals? It is now abundantly clear why they are known as airports. One needs a Lear jet to traverse between terminals!

On my way to the new building, the convenient carry strap on my suitcase broke. Just what I needed. I struggled to attain a grip on the infernal thing, and off I hobbled. Once inside, it became apparent, even to the casual observer from Pluto, that something was afoot. Without first checking with me, President G. W. Bush was creating havoc at my airport! Flights were being maneuvered every which way. You never saw such a mess. Naturally, everyone and their Aunt were traveling on United Express.

After what seemed a dog’s lifetime, I, again, made it up to the counter. The idiot behind the machine mumbled something unintelligible; looked up to see if I acquiesced; then began shredding my ticket without so much as an utterance from me. I was handed this tattered mess, and it attempted its form of communication again. I informed it that I wasn’t certain I had heard correctly. Would it mind repeating? Presuming I was as deaf as a post, it began hollering, “To progress to gate such and such!” I queried where that might be. Perplexed, or apoplectic, it began shrieking, “Over there! Over there!” This was accompanied by some form of ritualistic dance. Maybe it was just a fit of some undetermined nature. Exasperated, I left the counter–deliberately in the opposite direction. I could feel another of its fits close at hand.

I informed the handsome young thing at the gate that I was partially sighted, and may need some assistance. Quick as a wink, this wonder-man slid his arms about me, gathered my carry-on luggage, and continued to escort me to the plane. I busied myself peering about for the appropriate sized jet to whisk me away to San Francisco. All I could see, however, were these almost-planes with propellers. They must be obstructing my view. Besides, I am legally blind. Who knew?

Not only was Mr. Wonderful in charge of the gate, but head baggage handler, only flight attendant, and co-pilot! He helped me negotiate the precarious step thing, and directed me to the only seat left. Meanwhile, he would stow my luggage in the on-board luggage cupboard at the rear of the plane-let.

Arrange side by side, 1½ everyday kitchen chairs. Now separate them by twelve inches. In the complete chair on the right, squeeze two full sized adults. On the remaining portion, comfortably rests the third passenger. Lucky me. I perched on the half seat; luxury to the masses. This perch was more akin to a hinged oar than to any real airplane seat.

The twelve inch separation, otherwise known as an aisle, was the only place for your feet. This soon became more of a test in physics than comfortable flying. Each passenger on the left side of the craft soon learned the only position available to keep themselves upright. One must clutch whatever was available on the side of the cabin with their left hand, while practically sitting on their right hand to grip tight the hinged paddle; meanwhile, bracing the rest of their body with their feet. The feet must be planted strategically apart, simultaneously, pushing up with their legs to force their left shoulder into the wall of the cabin. Comfortable? Oh, you bet. Now, for added excitement, “Everybody try this maneuver during turbulence!” Naturally, this awakens the previously unnoticed, sleeping, tot. It becomes readily apparent to all but the Mother, that the only thing to do is to open the closest window and fling it to the wolves.

Once landed, the craft becomes the wickedest Mr. Toad’s ride ever. Because this plane is so revered by all those who work in the tower, it is granted the sole privilege of using the runway furthest from the terminal; thus, perpetuating Mr. Toad’s wild ride! When the roof of the terminal can be identified, these fool-hardy adventurers begin to scurry madly about the twelve inch space. This, in turn, alarms the previously docile occupants, who begin to elbow joust the intruding luggage attached to a zealous patron. Now that the plane has officially come to a full and complete stop, those same zealots make a frenzied dash to the luggage cupboard and the only exit door.

It must be noted that my final destination was San José. Here in beautiful San Francisco it was freezing. Of course in Sacramento it was a balmy 102º. Perfectly prepared for this eventuality, yours truly packed and pre-shipped all the relevant winter’s knitting apparel directly to San José. “Would there ever be an end to this dreadful day?” “No!” comes the resounding response from passers-by.

In comparison, the trip to San José was relatively bland. I was again flying with the Walenda's and their original Wright Brothers’ invention; but, this time, I was afforded the full kitchen chair! Oh, yes, the beastly baby follows me on every flight. Its size, sex, and shape tend to be modified, but I know it’s the same menace. This wonderment comes highly recommended by Attila the Hun.