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Mistakes were made

New York City meets Munich

January 4th, 2002 · No Comments · Uncategorized

Death from above

So much for our plan to destroy Frankfurt. The crack team at Augsburg Airways security were on to >Conny from the start. The world is much safer now that she no longer has those nail scissors. These are the same nail scissors she’s managed to fly from the U.S. to Munich with. Guess our security boys in J.F.K. were just asleep at the wheel. Huge surprise.

Has anyone figured out what the airports of the world are doing with the hundreds of thousands of nail files and nail scissors they’ve got? Maybe they should start a wholesale business or something.

The women behind the check-in counter at Augsburg Airways were busy using some of these various confiscated nail files when we arrived several hours early for our flight. Not wanting to be distracted from their manicures, they informed us we couldn’t check-in until an hour before the flight. This meant by the time we did check in, all the decent seats on our connecting flight in Frankfurt were gone. Thanks Augsburg Airways!

We got shimmed into the middle two non-reclining seats in front of some bulkhead. This is not where I want to be on a full trans-Atlantic flight. As if battling the deadly menace of deep-vein thrombosis isn’t enough of a challenge, there were further indignities to be had (see diagram).

747 seating plan

My neighbor to my right was a Russian gentleman who was an avid reader. I found this out because nothing could keep him from reading his book. While others slept in the dark, his reading light, which of course illuminated my seat as well, burned brightly. I only wish he enjoyed the use of deodorant as much as he liked that damn book.

So I’m trying to sleep under this interrogation light when I feel something on my shin. I look down and see my neighbor has crossed his legs. He could cross his left leg over his right, thereby allowing his socked foot to enjoy the ample room provided by an aisle seat. But, instead, he decided so allow his right foot to enjoy some of my precious few cubic inches of personal space. I scrunch my legs back and curse under my breath. When something like this happens once, I assume it’s an accident. When it happens again, which it did, I assume the guy is just inconsiderate. When it happens a third time, which it did, I start to think the guy is flirting with me.

Then there’s the Singing People. The row in front of us must be some choral group heading to a performance. They’ve got sheet music out, and they are pouring over it and doing what choral groups do when they are learning a piece: they sing it. Like this: “Laaa LAAAA laaa la la LAAAAAA daaa da daaa DAAAAA.”

I’ll admit when I travel for work, I often prepare on the plane. This mostly consists of typing on a computer. If I were travelling to a hog calling contest, it would not occur to me to practice on the damn plane. Yes, they were singing quietly, but quiet singing is like discreet farting, it still effects the people in your immediate area. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t some percussion group.

The movie on the flight also sucked so bad that I didn’t even try to watch it. What studio has such compromising pictures of John Cusack that he’d agree to make a piece of garbage like Serendipity? Conny View definition in a new window tried to watch it, but found it insufferable. She found the Singing People less irritating than the movie, but not by much.

I think the sound of the singing may have travelled farther than I thought, because when it came time to land, someone several rows ahead was ill enough to require pretty much all the flight attendants to stand around her. Remind me not to get sick on a plane. As one of the flight attendants walked by our aisle on his way to stand by the sick passenger, a passenger stopped him to make a useful suggestion:

“Is it her stomach that’s bothering her? Do you have any ginger ale? Ginger ale is good for that.”

The flight attendant was polite. “Thank you.”

Last thing I want is for all the morons on a 747 to volunteer home remedies for me as I lie writhing in the death throes of a blood clot in my lungs.

“Here! Have some ginger ale!”

Thanks, Marcus Welby. Now let me die in peace and send the bill to Lufthansa.

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