The Devolution of Flight
Seattle, WA
July 8, 2021
Today we’re in transit. To pilfer Pascal, I’ve no time to write a short note, so I have to squeeze in a long one.
We’ve just come off a flight from Atlanta, on our way to Walla Walla. Our connecting flight is delayed about an hour, so we’re camped in the Sky Club waiting to depart, having some lunch, and receiving welcome relief from six hours inhaling incessant carbon dioxide and our own hot breath.
Air travel wasn’t always like that. As a kid, flying was exciting, and elegant. We’d wear our little coats, tie (or clip on) our ties, and sit amid the grown-ups as pretty stewardi served us Cokes and pinned plastic wings on our dapper lapels.
As I grew older, I continued to wear a sports coat on a plane. Jerry always told us that the navy blazer was a man’s “uniform”. He should have one wherever he went, just in case.
Rather than risk wrinkling one by packing it, I’d simply wear the coat on the plane. So my airborne dress code was formed initially from habit. But it eventually became more intentional – a futile attempt to preserve the refined aura of a fading era.
Now, it’s gone. I’m wearing jeans and a golf shirt, and my sports coat hangs at home, among the last vestiges of a more dignified age. A time when you could pass unmolested thru airport security, whether you had a boarding pass or not.
Till relatively recently, a boarding pass wasn’t needed to wander the airport. Locals regularly met loved ones at the gate, or might’ve decided to go out for an impromptu dinner at an airside restaurant. Boarding passes were necessary only to get on the plane. But even then they didn’t need to have the traveler’s name on it. Anyone’s would do. No one checked ID, or cared.
Many times I’d use someone else’s ticket, or offer up my own, rather than let it go to waste. When I lived in San Francisco, other people’s tickets got me to Tampa for several Christmas visits.
Even before the Twin Towers came down and provided air cover for enhanced “security” measures, airlines put a stop to this. With the predictability of turkey on Thanksgiving or fireworks on the Fourth of July, they trotted out “safety” as their excuse.
But they actually clamped down for reasons more related to profit than protection. They didn’t like advance-purchase tickets being given or re-sold to people who otherwise would’ve paid a higher fare closer to departure. No matter. Safety is a great racket, and is often wielded to serve ulterior motives over unsuspecting nets.
When I was in high school, my friends and I would sometimes go to the Tampa airport to grab a bite, watch the planes, and trick weary public address operators into making prank announcements. Or we’d just hang around the terminal because we had nothing better to do.
I remember on one occasion we bumped into my uncle, Dink, who was on his way to the Delta Crown Room (as the place we’re sitting now was then known). I’m not sure he even lived in the area at that time, and know he wasn’t flying anywhere that evening.
But it was a Friday or Saturday night, and he had a Crown Room membership, so its bar became his pre-paid beverage buffet. I think he bellied up to it at least once a week. More if he actually had a flight. But he certainly wasn’t prohibited from going there if he didn’t. No one cared. He wasn’t bothering anyone. He got his drinks and Delta got his money. Everybody was happy.
That concept seems strange today. But this was still a time before people were trained to always be suspicious of everyone else. Loudspeakers, social media, do-gooders, and busy-bodies didn’t admonish us to snitch on each other, to say something if we saw something. We simply went about our business, without an incessant urge to mind that of others.
Stewardesses were on the plane to cater to customers, not to boss them around and scold them like a schoolmarm. In those distant days not so long ago, customers were generally better behaved too. They usually showed up showered and groomed, dressed as if they were out in public, kept the noise down, and tried to respect each other’s space.
Most tried to be considerate. They’d not abruptly recline their seat into another’s lap, or use the back of your seat as a catapult to launch themselves from their own. Granted, there’ve always been louts, and it was easier not to be one when coach seats offered more space than that allotted to a Greek galley slave. Still, tho’ the golden age of flight was flickering, there were still a few glimmers of glamour. Bliss was it in that dusk to be alive!
Unfortunately, the sun set long ago. For the last couple decades, especially since the “War on Terror”, air travel has been drudgery. And almost all the extra hassle is counterproductive, wasteful, and unnecessary. Most derives from fear-based theatrics or deteriorating social decorum.
Passengers are treated like suspects whose guilt is presumed. From the moment we approach the airport, we’re under surveillance and suspicion: queue up…empty your pockets…open your bags…raise your hands…show your papers.
During security kabuki, those who’ve forked over a TSA fee can avoid being groped or nuked, and retain a smidge of dignity by not having to un-belt their pants and remove their shoes. But many grandmothers, invalids, and girl scouts are still frisked like common criminals or Congressional interns, for no apparent reason other than to facilitate submission and keep us in our place.
For nine years, before last March, I’d be on a plane almost every week. Until this morning, I’d not been on one for sixteen months, and wasn’t eager to return. Not for fear of Covid, but for loathing of the reaction to it.
I had no interest in regimented airports, mandatory masks, institutionalized hypochondria, and suspension of the on-board drink service that would be necessary to alleviate these irritants. Several times last year, rather than deal with such degradation, we avoided airports and drove to our vacations in western Michigan, central Florida, or south Alabama.
Even for this trip, I suggested to my wife (who, I hasten to remind readers, does not necessarily agree with her husband on these matters) that we take extra time, and travel the 2,400 miles by car…just to avoid the indignities. I’d go to Walla Walla in covered wagon if necessary. In so many words, Rita told me I was more than welcome to do so, and to beware of Indians on the way. She, Alexander, and David would be flying.
I obviously decided to join them. What the hell. If nothing else, it’d be a chance to see what air travel had become under the Covid regime. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I’d heard, or imagined. Maybe it’d be worse. Only one way to find out!
Knowing how air travel has revived, we arrived at Hartsfield a couple hours before departure, in event we’d be unable to park. We needn’t have worried. After orbiting the lot a few times, we found a space, grabbed our bags, and strolled toward the terminal. After a last gasp of fresh air, we covered our faces, and went in.
It’s a cliché to compare the processing of passengers to herding of cattle, but not an unreasonable one. After checking our bags, we were corralled thru security, rustled to the gate, and prepped to enter the final chute, which would funnel us toward the abattoir.
Before going in, we decided to fatten up…especially when we’d receive nothing but nuts, crackers, or kibble the next five hours. We each grabbed a burrito bowl to bring on the plane. Our meal filled us, while also giving a reason to ditch the mask while we slowly savored each small bite.
To prolong the pleasure, David suggested a trick he and Elizabeth conjured last month in Alaska. They’d grab a few lollipops, and keep one in their mouth at all times. As long as they were eating, a mask wasn’t required, and the protruding stick precluded one anyway. That’s a great idea, but it’s unfortunate we must resort to such shenanigans simply to act normal and breathe free.
As it happened, our neighbor was on our flight, and we saw her at the gate. Her daughter lives in Seattle, and had a baby last month, so she’s here to meet her grandchild. This neighbor usually feeds our cats while we’re gone, so her priorities this week are obviously out of whack. But we found a replacement sitter to tend the critters, and our neighbor apologized (repeatedly – she’s that nice), so all is forgiven.
I confess I missed some parts of flying. Seeing familiar faces in the Sky Club, chatting with the bartender at the Columbus airport, having an hour of solitude at 30,000 feet. All of that was a welcome part of my weekly routine.
Abominable as the “War on Terror” made traveling, the war on a virus has made it worse. But it’s not as bad as I’d expected. Aside from the creepiness and discomfort of the masks, our flight here was fine (and I removed or pulled down the mask several times without incident). The attendants were nice as they could be, the other passengers were polite, and the ride was smooth.
My whines and complaints notwithstanding, we have no complaints. In a couple hours, we’ll once again be in a place we love, with people we adore, and doing things we enjoy. Ours are first world problems in what we hope will endure as a first world place.
I’m reminded of Louis CK’s observation to spoiled ingrates such as myself that while we’re complaining about air travel, we’re watching movies, typing on our phones, and sipping cocktails…in the sky!
It’s also not lost on me that I’m griping over a glass of chardonnay, while relaxing on the second floor of an airline club, and enjoying a beautiful view out of floor-to-ceiling windows. At the very least, a little perspective and gratitude is probably in order.
Fair enough. But the degradation of the flying experience is real. I suppose what bothers me most is that it’s a microcosm, a symptom of a broader sickness…another piece in the larger mosaic of cultural decline.
How did this happen? When did it start? Who did it? What to make of it? And why do we put up with it? We’d like to think that time wounds all heels, and that the people who’ve done this to us are bound to get what’s coming to them.
Unfortunately, I think we are.
JD
