Airborne

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There are a few basic rules of etiquette to follow when flying. One: know your audience. Refrain from bomb jokes or quips about being a terrorist and having an armoury in your carry-on. People are twitchy these days, especially when it comes to flights. There is all likelihood you will end up with two burly officers dragging you by the armpits into a white interrogation room while the rest of us have to deal with a delayed, or possibly cancelled flight because of paranoia.

Two: respect the “bubble.” Personal space is at a premium, so one must try not to hog both armrests, try to keep knees from spreading too far apart, and definitely do not over-recline. There is a person behind you, who feels just as cramped as you do. Keep your socks on and your tootsies out of sight. No one wants to see or smell feet in an enclosed space with no ventilation.

Finally, don’t get handsy. On our connecting flight to Reykjavik, a guy kept going up and down the aisles, running his hands over everything. Everything. It was weird. And gross.

Studies have shown that the interior of a plane is one of the germiest places to be found.

At least he wasn’t running his hands over the passengers, just all the surfaces of the plane he could touch, including the overhead luggage compartments. Le Hubs thought he was on something, very likely little purple party pills. I decided he was some sort of shaman, blessing the plane’s interior with good juju. Between you and me, Le Hubs was probably right.

The older one gets, the worse economy feels. While airfare has never been more competitive, sometimes getting to the destination is exhausting. They’ve devalued comfort in favour of cramming as many people as possible on a flight. The usual seat configuration for a long haul flight is 3+3+3, so I usually end up in the middle with Le Hubs taking the aisle and a random human wedged into the window seat. No one wants to spend an extended amount of time next to strangers, and no sleep does not help in any way, shape or form.

Having come from work, I was too wired to sleep before the flight and ended up running on fumes. Sleeping on a plane in cramped conditions is uncomfortable and impossible to do without a certain amount of physical contortion. Over a day of no sleep and a transatlantic flight? I had never felt my age so keenly. Serves me right for deciding to celebrate my birthday across the pond.

It’s the ascent that gets me. Every time. That funny feeling you get when the giant metal tube you’re in careens down the runway and takes off, leaving your stomach somewhere between the earth and the sky, and it feels like a lifetime of being at a 45-degree angle, just climbing into clouds, chewing gum like your life depends on it because chewing gum helps your ears pop. It’s always a while before I can breathe easy again.

Sometimes it’s easy. It’s smooth and uneventful, the plane cutting through clouds without resistance. Sometimes it’s hard. The ascent is choppy, like riding a skiff over rough waves, and I find myself wondering if that view of the city will be my last, wondering if maybe I should’ve kept my shoes on in case the plane loses its battle with gravity and we plunge into the sea and I need to frog swim in the Arctic Ocean to save my life – or at least prolong it, if only by a few minutes – by finding a floating piece of wreckage like I’m in a James Cameron movie. I wouldn’t be able to do that if my feet are the first to go. Yes, I wear socks. No, they wouldn’t be helpful.

Still, I like ascents. I like the thrill. Humans weren’t meant to fly, and each time we take off, it almost feels like humanity has two middle fingers extended at the laws of gravity. Look at us now, world!

________________________

Author’s Twitter: @nikkajow

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