I suppose what that really means is landing at the right airport, within a reasonable time and without your seatmate getting air sick.
Fortunately the outbound leg has been uneventful. Arising at “Are you freakin’ kidding me o’clock” (2:30 am) I arrived at the airport a full two hours ahead of my flight time. Not exactly the best plan. However it did give the opportunity to make the start of the trip an examination of Travelerus Americus Humanus.
At 4:30 in the morning (college-age bedtime) we travelers are a motley crew. No amount of over-priced coffee can disguise the hollow eyed stare that accompanies 4 hours of sleep and the fear that you left the shower running, the iron plugged in or the dog strapped to the electric dog walker.
I am also reminded of the way air travel used to be.
I took my first plane ride at 2 years old to San Francisco. The photos I have show me, Mom and older bro Greg dressed like we were going to meet the Queen. People just didn’t wear jeans. I remember my Grandmother telling me dungarees (jeans) were only “work clothes”.
As the years went on I became increasing aware of stewardesses…(flight attendants to the politically correct in the crowd) led by the great gals at PSA (now Southwestern). Of course it was guys who decided to have the gals dress like this. Thanks guys.
So as we stumble on the plane like cattle, lined up in our proper seating group order, clad in sweats, t-shirts and flip flops I start my Western sojourn.
You’ll note the lack of video…yes, there is an explanation in our next episode.