When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home (8 page)

The passengers passed the hat and came up with $2,000, enough to buy 14,300 pounds of fuel to reach London. It seems the Porto Santo airport in Madeira refused to recognize the pilot's airline credit card and demanded cash.

There are no two people on an airplane who have paid the same price for a seat. Think about it and it will make you crazy. Some are relatives of airline employees who pay nothing, some are traveling on amassed mileage coupons, and some are on super savers where they travel on Tuesday morning only during the months when oysters are in season if they buy their tickets at high tide on the day they were born.

But one class distinction has remained: first class. These are all people who are either on expense accounts or are taking a pet to the “David Letterman Show.” They are divided from the peasants by a limp blue curtain.

I always wondered how long it would be before the little people in tourist, economy, and super saver seats stormed the Limp Curtain to protest inequality.

How long would they sit there and watch that little curtain being snapped together leaving them suspicious and classless? It's the stuff of which revolutions are made.

Well, it happened. A California woman in the coach section was awarded $8,000 a while back in a suit that alleged that a first-class passenger cursed and shoved her as she stood in line to use the bathroom in first-class. (On a scale of guts, that's equivalent to landing a plane in Red Square in the Soviet Union.)

The victim admitted she pushed through the Limp Curtain as a last resort. She could not reach “her own” facilities because a drink cart blocked the aisle. The defendant charged that the woman “trespassed in first class and violated his priority right to use the bathroom.”

Good heavens, do you know what this means? Next thing you know, a super saver passenger will try to infiltrate his garment bag into a first class compartment or try to inhale first class smoke on an international flight. It won't stop there.

First-class travel has always been a mystique shrouded in fantasy to most Americans. They visualize it as a place on the plane where skirts and flight times are shorter, entertainment is live, and bathrooms are big enough to shut the door without standing on the seat.

Some people imagine women with tiaras, large bosoms, and lace fans throwing back their heads and laughing, “Let 'em eat stale sheet cake and green noodles back there.”

The irony is that the Limp Curtain dividing first class from tourist was never meant to keep the tourists in the dark—but the first-class passengers. No one wants them to know that their cocktail service is longer so attendants can get tourist class served first. They want to keep secret the fact that although they are paying twice the fare, the food is the same and they have half as many bathrooms.

Recently, I was riding in business class when I saw a first-class passenger spying at us through the Limp Curtain. He knows too much for them to let him live.

The airlines try. They have rules to cover everything. Ironically, the things that airlines concern themselves with are the things that never really happen.

How many headlines do you see: glass not collected BY ATTENDANT BEFORE TAKEOFF RESPONSIBLE FOR FIRST-CLASS DROWNING? Or, LUGGAGE NOT PUSHED ALL THE WAY UNDER SEAT CAUSES PLANE TO PLUMMET?

Here they are worried sick about keeping the door of the cockpit locked to protect them from hijackers and a captain of a British Airways flight is sucked out of his seat through the windshield.

I'm not minimizing security. It is a major concern of airlines and we should all take it as seriously as they do. However, when I see a terrorist in custody splattered over the front pages of my newspaper, it is always a mystery to me how he got by in the first place. He is usually an evil-looking man (or woman) with crazy eyes. He has no luggage and clutches with both hands a gym bag that holds an Uzi automatic. Yet, he breezed right through all that technical equipment. What did they think the Uzi was? A giant curling iron?

Then I am reminded of a small airport in Iowa where I watched a little old man in his eighties with no teeth, a voice like Gomer Pyle's, suspenders and belt on his trousers, plaid shirt, and a billed cap with Ralston Purina stamped on it. He didn't seem to fit your basic terrorist profile. But when he stepped through the security passage, a buzzer went off. He emptied his change on a tray and went through again. It buzzed. They claimed his car keys and his suspenders, which had metal on them. Five times he went through, stripping as he went. It was finally ascertained he was trying to smuggle aboard a half stick of gum covered with foil.

We've all been relieved of “weapons.” I've had needlepoint scissors that couldn't cut hot butter taken from me for “safekeeping.” One man said they took his cigarette lighter because there was a potentially explosive mix of chemicals. “My wife's cosmetics case probably had more potential for exploding,” he said. But the most ludicrous example I can think of was my teenage son who was bringing back a Masai spear as a souvenir from Africa.

Two security officers boarded the plane, escorted him off, and stood by while he checked the spear through with his luggage. I had to wonder when was the last time Great Britain was attacked by spear.

The idea of not blocking the aisle with things that do not fit under your seat is a joke. Can you imagine what a smooth exit you'd make when the person in front of you reclines his seat, embedding your snack table tray in your stomach?

I would be remiss if I didn't point out the greatest hazard of flying: the food.

There are some mysteries of airline food that need to be addressed:

More than six drinks of Snappy Tom will simulate a heart attack.

Hermetically sealed peanuts are really time capsules and never meant to be opened in this century.

Never eat anything that blinks first.

Airline steaks are done when they say they are done.

No matter what you order, the entree you didn't order will look better.

Some of the best fiction writers got their start writing airline menus.

The longer the cocktail hour, the more pathetic the entrees.

When you see pilots eating ice cream before they board, that is a clue they are ruining their dinner before it ruins them.

I certainly don't wish to imply that airlines are not sensitive to your problems. When passengers complained a few years ago that airline schedules were a disgrace and late arrivals were the norm and not the exception, they quickly did something about it.

They added thirty minutes to all their arrival times.

I could have done that.

A flight that normally takes fifty minutes now shows eighty minutes on the schedule, so that when it arrives “on time” you're not sure if it is the “real” time it takes to fly that distance or the padded time that is logged for the FAA.

In defense of airlines, there are a lot of reasons for being late:

A passenger refused to sit down and they were thirty seconds late leaving the jetport.

They left late because they were waiting for late-arriving baggage to be boarded. (Stand back. Noses grow on this one.)

“someone left a cargo door open” gives you a warm glow, as does, “We seem to be missing a crew.”

The rules of aviation are still being written. Recently, a couple were escorted from a plane because they smelled bad. (Then again, it could have been the entree.) In another incident, police and a pair of handcuffs awaited a passenger who saw fit to “steal the music” aboard a plane by using his own headphones. I don't even want to imagine what would happen if they found someone reading lips watching a movie he didn't pay for.

An observation is sometimes made that Wilbur and Orville Wright would be amazed at the crowded skies that resulted from their invention eighty-eight years ago. Maybe not.

Somehow I can see Wilbur sitting up there somewhere in the clouds smiling when passengers are reassured before takeoff that their cushions will flotate if they have to. He is gleeful when we all sit there like flies on a doughnut while flight attendants ask us to cover our faces while they come through with an aerosol spray for bugs before we land in the Bahamas.

When we line up obediently for surveillance while a dog sniffs our pillboxes containing estrogen, I have a feeling Orville is there too . . . shaking his head and saying, “I can't believe they bought it.”

Language

In September 1987,1 was asked to introduce His Holiness Pope John Paul II, who was to preside over a papal Mass in Sun Devil Stadium, Tempe, Arizona.

I was humbled by the honor and wanted desperately to do something special. I decided to welcome him in Polish, his native tongue.

The only Pole I knew was a seamstress who did alterations for me from time to time, so I said to her, “Tell me how to welcome the Pope in his own language.”

On the night before his arrival, I rehearsed the speech before a couple of priests in charge of the event. I took a deep breath before my big finish, “Arizona vita oitsa sven-tego yana pavwa druuuuugeggo.”

One of the priests said to me, “Why would you want to tell the Pope his luggage is lost?”

I am not good with language.

Spain

Sometimes I dazzled myself with my efficiency. I had the signed contracts for the rented Spanish villa in my handbag. I had triumphed over the logistics of getting eight members of our family to rendezvous at the Barcelona airport. The reserved rental cars were waiting to take us to the small town of Palafrugell, where we would be met by a staff that included a gardener, a housekeeper, and a cook. Every detail was in place for the perfect holiday on the “wild coast” of Spain.

We had never planned a vacation quite like it before.

At the villa as I alighted from the car, the staff came forward like a scene straight out of an English novel. The older woman smiled broadly before she extended her hand in welcome. “Buenos dias, senora.”

“Hi,” I said warmly in return, pumping her hand.

“Espero que tinguis un bon viadge?”

“Right. So, where do you want our luggage?”

“Si teniu alguna pregunda som aqui per a servir-vos.”

“You do speak English, don't you?”

"Voldrieu una copa de vi i una mica de formadge?

“ My husband whispered, ”They don't speak English."

“Of course they speak English,” I said. At this point I used my usual speaking voice when conversing with foreigners. I place myself squarely in front of their faces, raise my voice and shout slowly, “DO—YOU— SPEAK—ENGLISH?”

“They're not hard of hearing,” said my husband. “They're only Spanish.”

By this time, the staff were beginning to talk among themselves. I once again intervened. “Hablas Ingles, por favor?”

All three shook their heads vehemently. “No no, senora. Habla Catalan.”

“What's Catalan?” I asked my husband.

“It's a language spoken in Northern Spain. It's Spanish with a twist.”

“They don't speak English,” I announced to the group.

“What about those nine credit hours of Spanish you took in college?”

“The only thing I remember is the Lord's Prayer.”

“It's worth a shot,” said my dad.

I couldn't believe that I had overlooked something this important. In most large cities, English is spoken . . . somewhere. But here in this small community, it was nonexistent.

My husband drew me aside. “Let me get this straight. We are spending the next three weeks in a house where the only way we can communicate with the staff is by prayer?”

“I remember a few words here and there,” I lied. “Besides, there are bound to be a few phrases in the back of the guidebook.”

I must say at this point that it boggles the mind to read what expressions writers of these books consider important for travelers. The phrases included: “May I have a kilo of oranges?” How many people walk about with that kind of vitamin deficiency? And here's one: “I have lost the key to my diary.” What century was that written in? One glossary I read had the question: “Will you direct me to the frivolity?” That could get you in protective custody in a hurry.

Actually, what this world needs is a universal phrase for “Is the water safe to drink?”

When the exchange of language does not exist, serious charades take over. I have always said if God had meant for us to speak a universal language, He would never have given us ten fingers. When the cook, Ascension, wanted to know what time we wanted the next meal, she would act like she was feeding herself. I would hold up eight fingers, signifying eight o'clock. When my mother enjoyed the dinner, she would pat her stomach, stick out her tongue a couple of inches, smack her lips, and say, “Yummy, yummy.” My mother usually doesn't talk like that.

Ironically, my college Spanish began to come back with an occasional word here and there—usually nouns. Everything was good (bueno) because I couldn't think of the word for bad. We did a lot of smiling, bowing, and nodding, and when things really got frustrating, I would burst out, “My younger son is arriving with the verbs. Hang on. He gets here day after tomorrow and things will be better.” They had no idea what I was babbling about.

On the morning of the first day at the villa, the housekeeper, Marguerita, came to me and escorted me to the kitchen. She put a very large shopping basket over my arm and pointed to the door. You can't get more graphic than that. I was to buy the food at the town market and Ascension would cook it.

I gathered the women of our family together and gave each of them a basket and an assignment. One was to go to the “meat place,” one to the bakery, one to the fish house, and one to the stalls of fruit and vegetables that lined the walking street. The instructions were simple: Don't even think of returning to the car with an empty basket!

We did well at pointing out what we wanted. It was only when they wanted to know in Catalan how many or how much that threw us. The merchants were wonderful. They knew we didn't know diddly from squat. After a couple of stressful hours at the market, I plopped down in a chair at the small outdoor cafe at the end of the street and summoned a waiter. “Uno cabeza,” I said crisply. The waiter stared at me. I repeated my order.