The Washington times., 1932-12-08

room in Naples, / don't suppose
/ have to tell you that ] reached
my destination in complete
safety. / want to add that I
now think flying is positively
swell, grand, beautiful and thrill
ing-for those who like it. I
don't like it.
Maybe it's because I had my
first plane ride under condi-
tions that were a trifle trying.
None of my fellow-passengers
spoke any English at all and I
was unable to complain to any
one about anything. If only Mr..
Winchell could have been sit
ting beside me and I could have
watched his complexion turn
slowly from white to green, I
imagine I would have enjoyed
the trip immensely. But I'm
getting ahead of my story.
The bus trip to the airport
was uneventful. The ride from
Rome to the WATERFOWL
didn't tell you that I was going
to fly in a seaplane because I
didn't know it myself-is sched-
uled to take 40 minutes. The
bus driver hit so miles an hour
for the first five minutes-and
then slowed down to IL miles
an hour so that he wouldn't
get there too early. I guess
that's what they call system.
Emergency Supplies
The first thing I did when
the bus finally pulled in was to
buy a small bottle of cognac. I
didn't know how I was going to
react to the trip, and I felt that
q swallow of cognac every now
and then wouldn't do any harm
in any event. I placed the
cognac in my coat pocket, went
through the customs and
marched to our seaplane with
a firm tread. I think.
AS bent over to get into the
plane, the cognac fell into the
sea. That made me so nervous
that I wanted to go back for a
case-but they wouldn't let me.
I slid down a marrow ladder
and took a seat right next to a
portfolio. How was I supposed
to know that that was the
worst seat in the world for a
beginner in a plane?
An elderly lady with a small
hat and a long nose sat her
self next to me. It was a 10
passenger plane, but they put
II people in the cabin-one
man being compelled to sit
upon the steps. The pilot and
the mechanic were two more,
making 13 in all. And 13 is
a number I never liked.
Before I quite realized it, we
were flying. Aside from the
few instances in which I
glanced out of the window and
the times that we rode into
what must have been air pock-
cts, the experience wasn't so
bad. If I could only have
talked to someone I would have
been fairly happy.
We had been flying an hour
or so when the woman in the
next seat suddenly nudged me.
Her complexion was strangely
white, and she kept pointing
to my left. She was shouting
something in Italian. and I fig
ured that she wanted me to
open the portfolio.
Ready to ObIige
I did so-and the damned
thing flew back and hit me
right on top of my head. But
I smiled just the same. Any
thing for a lady.
There you are, lady," I said.
But she wasn't satisfied. I
had evidently done the wrong
thing. She kept screaming in
Italian and pointing to my left.
I handed her a newspaper and,
thinking she might want to
know the time. I showed her
my wrist, watch. No use. I
was still wrong.
She finally shot me a hate
full glance, stood up in the
swaying plane. reached across
me and grabbed a paper bag
that was hanging beside me.
I then learned that people use
those bags when they are not
feeling quite well.
But how was I supposed to
know that? I thought it was
a sort of ash tray. I guess
I'll always be nothing but a
Broadway columnist.
RATIONAL TSRtsHt g. 3 ss.!S + s;sO
- Mat Saturdav 6Kn tn CT