Tag Archives: Air Travel

Chicago O’Hare at 3 a.m.

Chicago O’Hare at 3 a.m.

Patti and I took separate flights from Athens to Chicago but since we both had to overnight, we shared a room at the Hilton O’Hare Hotel at the airport. We’d set the alarm for 2:30 as my plane started boarding at 4:40 and I needed to dress, finish packing and make my way to terminal 3 at Chicago O’Hare Airport. The alarm went off and I managed to get up and into the bathroom without awakening Patti. I dressed, put on makeup and only then checked my computer… only to discover it was just 1:15. I had dreamed having the alarm go off!  No wonder she hadn’t heard it.  I took my blouse off and climbed back into bed half-clothed and slept for another hour.

At the airport, I couldn’t find an open security line and found most airline employees to be rather surly at the inconvenient hour of 3 a.m. I got three different instructions about where to go but finally found my place at the end of an extremely long line located in the opposite direction of where I’d been instructed to go formerly.  Half an hour later, I’d made my way to the walk-through, only to be stopped by a TSA agent saying I registered as having metal wrapped entirely around my body in the hip area!  Very strange. Did I want to go to a private area? No. Pat away. She patted and patted.. until finally the mystery was solved. I had on a blouse with a seed bead fringe around the bottom. Evidently the beads were lead crystal—thus registered as a bomb of sorts wrapped around my middle regions. Every time I think I have this security thing worked out, a new surprise!  Now 4:10 a.m. 34 minutes until boarding..then Dallas Ft. Worth bound.  Hate that airport!! Almost home.

You caught me.  This is not the excellent photo of sleepy wayfarers in the Chicago AA waiting room. My computer refuses to accept my SD Card, so it will have to do.

Acapulco Bound

Click on first photo to enlarge all and see full captions.

Open Letter to the Airline Mucky-Mucks: (For dVerse Poets)

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Open Letter to the Airline Mucky-Mucks

To Whom It May Concern:

My carry-on’s too heavy to lift above my seat,
so I had to put it under, now there’s no room for my feet.
I request some water (though I’ve been twice rebuffed,)
to take an antihistamine, for my eyes are puffed
from the perfume of my seatmate, which also made me cough.
So I’m already hurting long before lift off.
I’ve squeeze marks from the narrow seats, I’m shivering from the draft,
and when this ride is over, I must board another craft!

Two hours later, two states up, I face another battle
trying to find a decent airport meal here in Seattle.
On my muffuletta sandwich (priced $15.93),
I look in vain for olives, which there don’t seem to be.
My Tim’s potato chips are stale, the sodas are all flat.
The Wifi that they advertise does not know where I’m at.
Air travel’s an adventure but not the one I sought.
I forget this lesson once again, refusing to be taught.

One hour left ‘til I lift off to wing my way on east,
I buy a drink and steel myself to board your winged beast.
I hope this time my seatmate fits in her own seat
so I don’t have to deal again with the impossible feat
of leaning out into the aisle, avoiding every ass
of passengers and stewards that brush me as they pass.
I bitch, I whine, I grouse, I cry, complain and moan and sigh.
‘Til by now I’m sure you wonder why I even fly.

I must admit I’ve asked myself the same as I’ve been talking.
The only reason I have found is that it sure beats walking.

 

For dVerse Poets prompt: Write a poem in the form of a letter.

Hard Transit

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Hard Transit

My grandfather and his two teenaged daughters
drove a wagon to Dakota to claim a homestead.
I never asked how many weeks they traveled, or the hardships that they faced.
The young don’t know what answers they will wish for until it’s too late;
so only imagination serves to describe the heat,
day after day with no water except for what they carried,
coyotes, gray wolves and the glaring sun of the treeless prairie.
My aunts were just young girls dealing with the difficulties young girls face
in the sparsest of conditions. No mother. No outhouses.
The jarring ride—grasshoppers so thick the wagons skidded off the tracks,
and that loneliness of riding into
the emptiness of a strange world.

Now, I stand impatiently at the immigration window,
then the ticket line and the security line.
I empty pockets, discard water bottle,
remove computers from their cases, take off shoes,
raise my arms for the check,
struggle up the escalator with bag and purse,
find the right gate,
negotiate the walkway to the plane,
lift the heavy carry-on and lower myself into the too-small seat.
“Plane travel isn’t what it used to be,” my neighbor says,
and we console each other about how hard it is.
“Nine hours from Guadalajara to St. Louis—
a plane change and a three-hour layover in Atlanta,”
I grumble, and he sympathizes.

 

This is a rewrite of a poem I wrote so long ago that even I don’t remember it! The prompt today is sympathize. 

Glamor Travel

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Glamor Travel

My carry-on’s too heavy to lift above my seat;
so I had to put it under, now there’s no room for my feet.
I request some water (though I’ve been twice rebuffed,)
to take an antihistamine, for my eyes are puffed
from the perfume of my seatmate, which also made me cough.
So I’m already hurting long before lift off.
I’ve squeeze marks from the narrow seats, I’m shivering from the draft,
and when this ride is over, I must board another craft!

Two hours later, two states up, I face another battle
trying to find a decent airport meal here in Seattle.
On my muffuletta sandwich (priced $15.93),
I look in vain for olives, which there don’t seem to be.
My Tim’s potato chips are stale, the sodas are all flat.
The Wifi that they advertise does not know where I’m at.
Air travel’s an adventure but not the one I sought.
I forget this lesson once again, refusing to be taught.

One hour left ‘til I lift off to wing my way on east,
I buy a drink and steel myself to board the winged beast.
I hope this time my seatmate fits in her own seat
so I don’t have to deal again with the impossible feat
of leaning out into the aisle, avoiding every ass
of passengers and stewards that brush me as they pass.
I bitch, I whine, I grouse, I cry, complain and moan and sigh.
‘Til by now I’m sure you wonder why I even fly.

I must admit I’ve asked myself the same as I’ve been talking.
The only reason I have found is that it sure beats walking.

The prompt word was passenger.

Bogged Down in Blog

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Bogged Down in Blog

It’s hard to write while traveling–
your half-knit thoughts unravelling
as they call you in to talk
or have a meal or take a walk.

You sleep in other people’s houses,
wrinkles in your unpacked blouses,
possessions jumbled in your cases,
move at unfamiliar paces.

You live a life that’s not your own–
daily walking, driven, flown
while trying to remember faces,
confused by all these different places.

In the past I adored going–
miles passing, airwaves flowing.
I loved to move like a rolling log,
but that was when I didn’t blog!!!

Now I find I’m scurrying.
Wake up already hurrying.
I’m confused and frankly dumb,
forgetting where I’m coming from

as well as where I’m going to.
I’ve lost a sock and lost one shoe.
Still, I find time to write each day,
here in some room, hidden away.

This daily writing’s an addiction
that makes real life a dereliction!
I short my hosts to do my writing.
I’ve given up my life for citing!


The Prompt: State of Your Year–How is this year shaping up so far? Write a post about your biggest challenges and achievements thus far.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/

Open Letter to the Airline Mucky-Mucks

Glamour Travel

My carry-on’s too heavy to lift above my seat;
so I had to put it under, now there’s no room for my feet.
I request some water (though I’ve been twice rebuffed,)
to take an antihistamine, for my eyes are puffed
from the perfume of my seatmate, which also made me cough.
So I’m already hurting long before lift off.
I’ve squeeze marks from the narrow seats, I’m shivering from the draft,
and when this ride is over, I must board another craft!

Two hours later, two states up, I face another battle
trying to find a decent airport meal here in Seattle.
On my muffuletta sandwich (priced $15.93),
I look in vain for olives, which there don’t seem to be.
My Tim’s potato chips are stale, the sodas are all flat.
The Wifi that they advertise does not know where I’m at.
Air travel’s an adventure but not the one I sought.
I forget this lesson once again, refusing to be taught.

One hour left ‘til I lift off to wing my way on east,
I buy a drink and steel myself to board the winged beast.
I hope this time my seatmate fits in her own seat
so I don’t have to deal again with the impossible feat
of leaning out into the aisle, avoiding every ass
of passengers and stewards that brush me as they pass.
I bitch, I whine, I grouse, I cry, complain and moan and sigh.
‘Til by now I’m sure you wonder why I even fly.

I must admit I’ve asked myself the same as I’ve been talking.
The only reason I have found is that it sure beats walking.

(Written in the Seattle Airport, enroute to Billings, Montana–then on to Sheridan, Wyoming by car, chauffeured by Patti and accompanied by Patty.  Yes, I have a plethora of P’s in my life.)

The Prompt: Singular Sensation– if you could have a guarantee that one, specific person was reading your blog, who would you want that person to be? Why? What do you want to say to them?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/singular-sensation-2/

Placement

Where Things Go

Etiquette decrees the place for knife and fork and spoon.
Cocktails belong with sunsets. A wedding goes with June.
Placement is determined by a sort of mass assent.
Snail mail goes in mailboxes. E-mail goes where it’s sent.

Freckles belong on noses and fingernails on fingers.
Perfume should stay in bottles, not in places where it lingers
to make allergic folks like me sneeze and carry on.
It’s a fact that things smell better after the perfume’s gone.

Sheiks belong in palaces, safari guides in tents.
Molls belong with gunmen whereas ladies go with gents.
Gloves are filled with fingers and socks with only holes,
since fingers simply do not go with garments that have soles.

Arms on sweaters, legs on pants. Astronauts in space.
Cats on cushions, birds in trees and eyebrows on your face.
Everything has someplace where it is meant to go.
Missionaries in Africa, tarts with men with dough.

Tiaras go on beauty queens, a dunce hat on a dunce,
or on those of us who want everywhere at once.
We use up fossil fuel flying here and there.
One moment we’re in taxis, the other in the air.

We aren’t really sure at all where we want to be:
mountain, beach or meadow, river, lake or sea.
There is a site on Google showing every single minute
where each plane is going carrying all the people in it.

This one wants to be where that one was just hours ago.
They have to take a Learjet. Other airplanes are too slow.
People flowing elsewhere like water in a stream,
giving up the here and now for places in a dream.

Sometimes I think I’m tired of moving here and there
and that my favorite place of all is right here in my chair.
I’ll give up future travels for places in my head.
My favorite place is in my mind.  I’ll travel there instead!

The Prompt: Places–Beach, mountain, forest, or somewhere else entirely?
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/places/

Daily Post: “Lined-up Blues”

 

“Lined Up Blues”

(to be sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells”)

Dashing through the flow,
barefooted as I go,
I stand and pine
in the security line,
emptying pockets way too slow.

Put my laptop in a bin
and my 3 oz. bottles in
a little bag,
but I can’t lag
‘case my purse and all my dough

has preceded me through the screen
and the TSA’s look mean.
I’m afraid that lady
who looks so shady
will take my purse and go.

(refrain;)

Oooooh, airport lines,
security whines,
waiting all the day.

I’ll flunk my scan
and the X-ray man
will frisk me all the wa-ay.

Airport blues,
got no shoes,
some man just took my rings.

I’ll lose my seat,
get athlete’s feet,
but lose my other things.

I guess it is the norm
my privacy to storm,
to strip me down
and frown and frown
as they survey my form.

I just spent all my dough
to come from Mexico
to see my kin
and then drop in
to see my favorite beau.

But first I’ll have to ride,
a center seat to abide
and airplane woes
like too-small rows
with no space left inside.

(refrain)

Ohhhhh, Airport blues,
travel dues,
no time to complain.

I grab my stuff
half in the buff
and run to catch my pla-ane.

Airport lines,
security whines,
I fear I’ll rue the day.

‘cause I have to face
this same disgrace
when I reach the U.S.A.!!!!

 

The Prompt: You’re at the airport, your flight is delayed for six more hours, and none of your electronic devices is working. How do you pass the time?

Blogger’s note:  Actually, I wrote a less tongue-in-cheek piece about this topic a few weeks ago. Here’s a link to that blog post: The Atlanta Airport