Fair enough, I supposed. I wanted to get the security check over rather sooner than later, and the squashed-looking food court was not exactly inviting, but I could hardly blame the airline for not staffing the counters when flight #2 (out of how many? My American Airlines flight from Indy to Chicago was #4491) wouldn’t board for another four hours. Food court it was. But first—MindWorks, a small, kid-oriented store with lots of loud and mobile toys. Must have been kid-oriented, or else no salesman in his right mind would have attached a tethered model airplane to the entrance ceiling, frenetically whizzing and threatening to decapitate any unobservant and taller-than-average dad. I passed over the baseball cards and the plethora of Hannah Montana dolls, throws and sour gummy chews, allowing myself to be amused by the ball-chasing “weasel” and the ball-encased guinea pig. A rack of Indiana Jones action figures looked promising until it yielded a total of two characters, both badly portrayed villains.
Lunchtime. I ordered a bratwurst at a gourmet hot dog stand, where the next customer, outgoing but less than intrepid, exclaimed in disgust at the odd-looking sausage on the grill. He then asked if it was mine, then if I was sharing, and then told the cashier that he’d pay for mine. (I already had.) That seemed to be the end of the conversation, so I sat down to enjoy my delicious-despite-appearances bratwurst in its poppy-seed bun. I’m still here; check-in begins in 10 minutes.
A recap of my earlier adventures: I packed as efficiently as I could, but the number of books I needed for my classes and Italian functionality was unmanageable with only one checked bag, which topped 50 pounds despite the rest of the weight distributed through a small duffel bag and backpack. My father thought bringing a second suitcase was a reasonable investment, so I repacked three times this morning, make another last-minute trip to the bank, picked up my mother and headed across town to the airport, where everything was smooth sailing. My disaster of a room I left for my generous mother to straighten up.
I spent most of the flight from Indianapolis in a daze of drool and my Allen and Greenough’s New (as of the late 1800s) Latin Grammar. (I learned yesterday, to my dismay, that in order to take the most advanced Latin course at the Centro, my school for the semester, I would have to pass a placement exam.) I came to conveniently as the stewardess came down the aisle with beverages (American Airlines, I’m happy to say, has not stooped to Northwest’s 3 oz. juice/water cups for short flights) and enjoyed the benefits of the smallest plane I’ve ever flown in (3 seats and an aisle wide, with room enough for only one row of overhead storage bins)—namely, a window-and-aisle seat. The view out my window was spectacular, for Indiana. The weather today is crystal clear, sunny, and there is a small amount of snow on the ground. I’d never seen snow from an airplane before, and I was shocked to see how varied the patches of ground were. It was just as if someone had taken the usual array of agricultural fields and domestic areas and had painted it over in different colors. Small herds of fluffy white clouds drifted lazily through the sky below us, looking like so many sheep under the watchful eye of the sun-shepherd. More impressive than this was Lake Michigan. It appeared to be frozen in strange fingers parallel to the waves, possibly with more ice on the surface further out. The sun reflected off of it so that it looked like nothing so much as blue leather, minutely creased and with a dull sheen. We flew over it and approached Chicago from the most grandiose angle possible, but the lake still dwarfed the enormous city.
2:42. I suppose LOT Airlines have started their business for the afternoon. Time to hit up security again.
January 24, 2009 9:34 CST (GMT-7)
The other side of airport security was completely barren. There was a concession stand by the metal detectors and a restroom further in. Otherwise it was only seats. Very much like purgatory, I imagine. You sit and wait and can’t talk to anyone because the only language the people around you speak is Polish, and you can’t stretch out and take a nap. Just sit and wait for hours.
LOT, when operating, is pleasant. The boarding passes are rainbow striped to keep you gay and cheerful, and this is the biggest plane I’ve been on in years (Boeing 767). When I boarded conversations were happening all over the plane. I only heard one in English. The flight attendant attempted to explain how I should find my seat, but the Polish was less than instructive. The tray in front of me has a label that explains, as clearly as possible to the passengers other than myself, “KAMIZELKA RATUNKOWA JEST POD TWOIM FOTELEM. SIEDZAC W FOTELU MIEJ PAS ZAPIETY.”
My seat partner is a middle-aged Polish man with a brown mullet. Despite having worked in the States for 20 years, his English is barely sufficient for the two of us to communicate. (My Polish is, of course, completely nil.) He is a semi driver for meat and produce companies, and in the process of delivering his goods he has visited all 50 states and Canada. (I imagine Hawaii was probably a side trip.) The other person who has attempted to communicate with me speaks far less English than he does (I have so far understood “socks” and “toothbrush,” both products thoughtfully supplied by the airline, and “baby,” a reference to me as I tried to take a nap).
The TV sets have been playing an odd selection of animated emergency instructions, informational panels (the outside temperature, at 20500 feet, 20 minutes after takeoff, was –14 degrees Fahrenheit), nature show clips, and nearly-pornographic music videos. (Never mind the dozen little kids on board…). Dinner was a choice of chicken or beef, though what the preparation difference was I have no idea. The beef dish turned out to be fantastic (not least because I was exceptionally hungry), a sweetish stew served piping hot with mashed potatoes, steamed veggies, a few sandwichy items and a fun-size Kit-Kat bar. European airlines serve alcoholic beverages as a regular option (here, either red wine or a Polish beer; my seat-mate showed it off to me cheerfully), so I had wine with dinner. My seat-mate is not a fan of Kit-Kat bars (“too sweet”), so he gave me his.
We are currently being entertained by Madonna’s underwear (how old is she now, and why can’t I have legs like that at half her age?), and last they showed the map we were just heading over the Atlantic Ocean out of the St. Lawrence area, due to cross Nova Scotia very soon. On their map Greenland is about the size of the Eastern United States. Little kids are running rampant in the aisles, and I can hardly blame them. We’re stuck on this plane until two hours after breakfast tomorrow.
The latest music video, although a first for the non-sex-related genre, only served to cement in my mind that Chad Kroeger really is an ugly man. Now we have moved on to some awards show red carpet where stunning women (and the occasional flamboyant male fashion guru) are interviewing other stunning women (haven’t seen any men being interviewed) about their stunning dresses (and one sweater-leggings combo). Unfortunately my eye is constantly drawn by the flickering TV displaying things on mute about which I really don’t care. I should try cramming some more Italian down my throat. Or Polish, if only I knew where to start.
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