I wish I could be like you. I get really worked up when I fly. Say what you want about not being in control—but I did know someone from college killed in a commercial plane crash. (rationalization) I"m not scared of terrorists either. But rather, the disgruntled mechanic who skips a step to get home to watch the Raiders. Regardless-- I have all my little rituals that I'm sure will keep me safe before, during and after the flight—which consists of the following + alcohol: 1. Aisle seat on the wing 2. tap the plane fuselage 3 times when I walk through the door and say "Fly good little plane" (I'm sure it listens) 3. I have to make eye contact with the pilot--even better if I can say hello (maybe he won't crash if he knows there's precious cargo back here?) 4. Once I'm seated I open up my little bag that goes on every flight with me. In it is a rosary a friend brought from Jerusalem , my Nana's angel pin and an affirmation for flying a friend gave me. I read the affirmation. I breathe. And I hold on to the bag (thereby holding on to the rosary for dear life!) And still the clenching, the gripping, eyes closed, tearing up commences.
This time however, as I went through my weirdness, a nice older woman sitting next to me saw my anxiety as the plane prepared for take off. She said "don't like to fly huh?" I said "Can you tell?" As the plane took off and my eyes started to well up (yes, it's uncontrollable) she said "Here hold my hand!" I needed a grandma's hand, so I took it. And it helped. A little. Once we're in the air, I'm usually okay--after the drink cart comes out, of course.
I offered to buy the nice lady who held my hand a glass of wine, but she refused. Said she was saving it for her visit to see her high school BFF. We did begin a lovely conversation that made the flight go by very quickly. She's 79. She's Portuguese. Her husband died last year. And she likes TV. (We got on that last topic after she asked me why I was flying to Phoenix .) "Oh I like those landscaping shows--especially the one with that cute man who walks up to people in the home depot and surprises them?" I smiled and said "I made that show." Her eyes lit up. "You did?!!" Suddenly she had a new BFF. And I liked it.
As we chatted, I realized this was one helluva strong woman. She told me how she lives alone on a mountain. Her husband died last year but “I wear a ready-alert 911 monitor around my neck. I accidentally hit it once and those cute firemen were there in a flash!” Before her husband died, she told me of how his leg had to be amputated. And how she had to fish him out of the pond when the ride-upon lawn mower he liked to ride-upon rolled into the water. Our conversation then turned to relationships. You had to know someone her age would toss out the “Are you married?” question. I told her "no" and how I had moved to the area for what I thought was going to eventually be a marriage. Lila—that’s her name, in case you were wondering—Lila told me about her daughter. Who is getting a divorce. “Relationships are hard. But you’re such a sweet, nice girl, I know you will meet someone again. Who wouldn’t want someone like you? You're part Portuguese and you listened to me ramble this whole trip!”
Huh. My eyes started to well up again. For the sweet sentiment, for the guy who gave that up--but also for the announcement “flight attendants prepare for landing.” I helped Lila get her bag down from the overhead compartment. I walked with her off the plane—wanting to make sure her friend was there to pick her up. But she said she had to stop and use the restroom-- and I had to get to my hotel and download questions I had to ask the “Minister on Meth” tomorrow. We said goodbye and I thanked her for getting me through the flight. An airport porter drove up on a little cart and asked if I wanted a lift to the baggage area. I said “no thank you, but there’s a delightful older woman in a blue coat --coming out of that bathroom in a few minutes, who could sure use a lift.”
I headed out and hailed a cab. My driver was an interesting Sikh gentleman who had to get directions himself, to the hotel I was staying in. We had an interesting conversation as I tried to steal a few glimpses of Arizona whizzing by. Preet, that’s his name—“with two E’s”, believes American women dress too sexy. “You wear your bra straps showing. Why do you do that? And you wonder why men want to rape you?” At this point—I’m wondering if my bra straps are showing, or if I’ll ever make it to the hotel. “How old are you?” he asks. I tell him that’s something American women don’t like to talk about if they’re old enough to show their bra straps. He laughed. We started talking about travel. (safe) Apparently Preet has been around the world—and not just on layovers b/w Mumbai and Phoenix. He and his brothers are quite famous Indian singers who have performed in Japan and Canada . He said he’d give me the link to his website. (of course, after I told him I was in AZ for a TV show) I asked him to sing for me, but he wouldn’t. We arrived at my hotel—45 minutes later—and just in time. Because at this point, he told me his age and asked me if I wanted to “maybe go out with him because his wife was staying in India?”
So far, it’s been an interesting trip. And to think, I almost said no because of my flight phobia! This IS the one thing I enjoy about traveling—the people you meet. So fear of flying be damned—I’m having a good old time. Maybe I’ll get my crew to take a picture of me standing next to a big cactus!?
When I got to the airport with only twenty minutes to spare—I ran to the ticket counter—only to find out they gave away my seat. “You can’t do that the Dr. Blank Show already paid for my ticket?!!” They didn’t care. “Go to the gate and maybe they can get you on standby.” This is something a scardey cat flyer does NOT want to hear. It means—packed flight. Which typically adds to my freak-out. When I got there, they were asking if people would give up their ticket—“You can have a first class flight out tomorrow and we’ll put you in a hotel!” I thought, well that’s not a bad deal--and it won't be crowded! There’s a young man also waiting to get on tonight who told me he was trying to get to his Uncle’s funeral in the morning. “I’ll do it—if you can give my ticket to him—and take my bag off the plane?” “Oh sorry mam, you checked your bag at ticket counter. We can’t take it off.” BUT YOU GAVE AWAY MY TICKET!!!
At that point, I told the young man—"I’m sorry. I don’t even have a toothbrush." and walked down the jet way. I got the last seat. Almost too angry to be afraid—and too rushed to do my pre-flight rituals—I snapped at the flight attendant who welcomed me “I sure hope your flight crew is more organized than your ticketing crew.” She later brought me a big, free glass of wine “from first class, for your troubles.” Stuck in the middle again—I started to show “weenie flyer” signs as we hit some turbulence. The woman next to me this time around said “Nothing to be afraid of. Just some air.” We started chatting. She just came from Alabama —been flying all day—visiting her sister.
I told her about my ordeal at the ticket counter. And she told me about her day. Two flights and still a two hour drive with her husband once we land. She said her husband doesn't like to fly either. But that's not why he's not with her. Seems her son got a bad infection and ended up in intensive care. After five years in Iraq, he gets some weird, strange illness that almost kills him--at home. I didn't get dinner--because of the long shoot--so I opted for one of those ten buck "snack trays" of old crackers and older cheese. May (that's her name) told me she always travels with food. Especially since she started the chemo. WHAT? "But it's my last round this week--so I'm gonna party!"
What am I complaining about--almost missing my flight? Here's a woman who just did a year of chemo for breast cancer, with her only child in the hospital--smiling and talking and happy to be in the air or ANYWHERE for that matter. I asked her if she had a nice visit with her sister. She said she did. "It could have been for a better reason but--hey--at least we got to go shopping together!" I pushed a little further--like the good interviewer that I am--"I had to bury my mother."
My mom is the strongest, most caring person I know. She cares for my sick dad with a smile on her face--always putting herself last on the list. But she's strong. She got her thyroid removed and was back home making dad sandwiches the next day. She listens to all four of her daughters cry about men, jobs, kids, dogs--and juggles them all while growing tomatoes and paying the bills and managing diabetes. I hope my mom gets to travel someday--like these two ladies. And I hope someone sitting next to her will talk to her and listen to her amazing life stories. I know for sure--she'll hold your hand.
This time I waited. I walked with May to the baggage floor--and lifted her suitcase off the carousel. We said goodbye--and as I waited for my bag--I called my mom to tell her I got home okay. It went to voicemail. I'm pretty sure she was talking to someone else. Caring for them, instead of going to bed. This week is her 70th birthday. And I can't wait to celebrate with her.
As I walked to my car--proud of the crazy journey I just made--proud that I flew--that I said yes to this adventure and had some extra money for the month--I saw May on the phone--probably to her husband. As I passed her I heard her say into the phone "Well how do I know what terminal I'm in?" I turned and yelled back: "You're in A! Terminal A!" I like to help people. I like to talk to people. I think I get that from my mom. For years I've believe I got my witty TV talents from my Dad...but I'm now beginning to believe it's all from my mom. I hope so.
Oh wait--almost forgot the title of my blog...the moment you've all been waiting for...the "you can't make this shit up moment?" I get to my car. Even remembered where I parked. I put the key in the engine--CHECK ENGINE LIGHT. All $1,000 I made on that shoot promptly went into the old, used BMW the very next day. Maybe flying is safer?
