Whether to Heaven or Hell…
Columbus, OH
January 14, 2020
I recently read that a woman is never more beautiful than when the first grey hairs appear. On that basis, the writer continued, America looked divine when the century began. But she hasn’t aged well since.
He rendered that verdict after spending the last several years reading the papers and watching the news. I drew the same conclusion yesterday, after a few minutes in the middle seat from Atlanta to Columbus.
The weather in Atlanta was awful all day, so our timely departure was anything but assured. Still, I began my weekly routine early.
I made my way to the airport, endured security lines reminiscent of Ellis Island, and settled into my accustomed seat in the Crown Room. I took a couple phone calls, kept one eye on my fragile departure time and, at the appointed hour, proceeded to the gate.
We backed away a few minutes early, dodged rival aircraft on the perpetually crowded tarmac, and bounced into a low ceiling of dense clouds and steady rain.
I had been “upgraded” from my Exit Row window seat to a middle seat in Comfort “Plus”. Like Andorra (but without the scenery), I was wedged between a couple noisy neighbors…one the size of France, the other of Spain. The large, loud men on either side of me obviously knew each other…but were clearly indifferent to the man between them.
They spent the entire time on the ground, and the first few minutes in the air, talking across me. Several sideways glances were insufficient hint, so I finally asked if either would like to switch seats.
“No, we’re cool.”
Then, they kept talking. Mercifully, they eventually succumbed to the impulse of the age, and resorted to their phones. I offered one of them my earphones after he started playing a movie without using his own.
“No, I’m cool.”
My frustration continued to build. Then, as with Washington’s army from Long Island, Divine Intervention facilitated my escape.
We had climbed above the clouds, and the warm, soft glow of a pre-dusk light began to fill the cabin. It soon put me at relative ease, which was immediately disturbed by a disconcerting realization. The sun was in the wrong place.
We were flying north, and I was on the port side of the plane. At this time of day, the ambient light that soothed my nerves should have been a blinding glare that obscured my sight. But the sun was nowhere to be seen. After glancing out windows on either side of the plane, I realized why.
We were headed west. And banking left.
Then, like a vision over Milvian Bridge, the salvific sign came from above. The captain announced a fire alarm sounded in the forward lavatory. We were returning to Atlanta.
“We apologize for the inconvenience. Flight attendants please prepare the cabin for arrival. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”
One way or another, that was no doubt true. And one way or another, where I was seated, I couldn’t wait.
The miscreant to my left did have earphones, so he was oblivious to the recent turn of events and plane. The one to my right was not quite sure what he heard, but it didn’t seem good. Suddenly, he became aware of my existence, and turned toward me.
“Did I miss something? What’d he say?”
“A fire alarm went off in the First Class bathroom. We’re going back to Atlanta.”
“Merde!”, he exclaimed, before sheepishly asking me to pardon his French.
Just kidding.
There was nothing apologetic, or sheepish, about him. But he made the same, succinct point in very clear English.
He was no longer ”cool”. He was actually quite hot. The next thing he said was not to me, or really to anyone. He directed it straight ahead, to the back of the seat in front of him.
It started with an “F”.
Forty minutes after the wheels went up, they again touched down. We sat a moment at the gate, then learned we’d need to switch planes. After the obligatory groans and the requisite sighs, passengers were very understanding, and the Delta crew was extremely gracious.
A travelers’ proverb holds that when you die, whether you go to Heaven or Hell, you must first change planes in Atlanta. I had not died, and was already in Hell. And apparently, you must sometimes change planes in Atlanta even after departing from Atlanta. I didn’t care. From where I’d been sitting, it felt like Heaven.
We expected about an hour on the ground. That provided enough time to scamper back to the Crown Room and grab a cup of “coffee”. So armed for what could be an extended wait, I approached the gate agent to request another seat. He apologized for the malcontents on the previous flight, and assured me he’d see what he could do.
As we boarded, I was relieved to be “downgraded” back to the Exit Row. Evidently, our recent scare convinced a prior occupant that she wasn’t comfortable “assisting in case of emergency.” Unfortunately, by switching seats with me, she unwittingly hurled herself in the midst of one.
In the peace of my new location, I appreciated how everyone at Delta managed the evening inconvenience, and how most passengers handled it. Aside from the two beside me on the first flight, most realized returning for a new plane was preferable to a fire on our current one.
We ascended once more through heavy fog and thick mist. Within half an hour, the dense cloak yielded to a crisp, clear evening. As the turbulence slowly subsided, the scene suddenly captivated.
We departed under a shroud of clouds. We arrived over the silhouette of the Alleghenies, and under the light of the stars. Scattered towns glittered in the crevices of low mountains and high hills.
The American lady was elegant in her finest gown, and her prettiest jewels. She still has her moments, even when she gives us a few grey hairs.
JD
