We Prefer the Stairs
By: Michael Whalen
Tags: Travel Writing, Humor, Short Story, Fiction, Creative Writing

Rachel is afraid of flying. Not just a little. When she was a child, her brother Scott locked her in a toy box and sat on the lid. The darkness and cramped quarters frightened her, and despite his sister’s screaming objections, Scott let the experiment go on for several minutes. Although to hear Rachel tell the story, you’d think she was blindfolded, cuffed, and bagged Houdini-style inside a titanium chest that her brother chained and padlocked before dropping into the backyard pool for hours. However it really happened, the end result was a lifelong case of claustrophobia and a fear of being locked into any space, no matter how big or small. She now views an airplane, any airplane, be it a propeller-driven eight-seater or a 400-seat jumbo jet, as just another toy box. Furthermore, the fact that most flights from coastal Monterey tend to venture over the Pacific at some point only reinforces her memory of the alleged backyard pool incident. I tell her that if in fact we do go down in a watery crash landing, she is probably the best equipped to survive, given her childhood training exercises. This statement does not, of course, have the intended effect.

To minimize the duration of Rachel’s confinement, we like to be the last passengers to board the plane, regardless of our seat assignment. This is seldom a problem. Often we arrive to find the gate area totally devoid of passengers and think we’ve missed our flight. We are usually greeted by name by the gate agents. “You must be Rachel and Michael; we’ve been expecting you.” Entering the jet way bridge, we find the missing passengers. They have simply been ushered from the airport chairs to a line in the tiny corridor. It’s not so much like we’re boarding, we’re just forming a line in preparation of boarding. Always with the lines. Rachel knows her toy box is waiting at the end of this particular line, and the fact that the entryway to her personal hell has now become another crowded container does not help.

In reality, we are waiting for all of the on-time passengers to fill up every square inch of overhead storage space. Not to mention the oversized carry-on baggage that must be gate checked. You know these people, right? The ones who knowingly bring a carry-on bag three times the size of the maximum allowable dimensions and act surprised when the flight attendant informs them they’ll have to gate check their bag. One of their bags that is. Because inevitably these people are also toting a briefcase or computer case or set of golf clubs. “What do you mean they won’t fit under my seat, I left the 2-iron at home?” These people are the nemesis of airline travel, but I’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve discovered a giant loophole. They have capitalized on the fact that the airline will tag their baggage at the gate, and then hand deliver it as they step off the plane. It’s like valet parking for your bag. It definitely beats paying to check them, risking a baggage handling error, and pre-empts the horrific baggage claim scene, with the endless jostling for position, the worry over someone mistaking your square black bag for their square black bag, and of course, the dreaded no-show bag. No sir, none of that nonsense for these VIPs. They simply hand over their downhill skis as they board and get them handed back as they exit. And the worst part is, no one is allowed to deplane until all of the valet-parked bags are retrieved and arranged along the jet way. In Dallas, I was once held up on the plane for twenty minutes before they opened the doors. I sprinted to my connecting flight in time to see the plane pushing back from the gate. Those brilliant, lousy bastards …

As much as I secretly admire their tactics, I cannot bring myself to indulge. My carry-on bag is always small because when you’re the last person to board, there is absolutely no overhead space left. My bag must fit under the seat. I’m certain airline designers originally intended this space for your legs and feet, but with all of those golf bags overhead, your feet had better learn to get along with your backpack.

Being six feet tall, I always try to book an aisle seat. It gives me room to stretch my legs and get up for a stroll to the lavatory without bothering anyone. Next best is the window, and then everyone’s least favorite, the center seat. No one like the center seat. Anytime 27E comes up on my boarding pass, I immediately envision a grossly overweight person with body odor encroaching from my left while another obese man naps on my right shoulder. I, of course, am wedged in the middle for the fifteen hour flight from LA to Hong Kong. Luckily for me, traveling with Rachel has removed all seating uncertainties. I now know that I will always have the center seat. Her claustrophobia dictates that she sit on the aisle. It gives her the false impression that she could escape if necessary. Escape to where I don’t know, but nevertheless she demands the aisle. At 5’4”, her feet barely touch the floor, and I often spend much of the flight staring longingly at the empty void under the seat in front of her and the spacious expanse of the neighboring aisle. Meanwhile, my feet wrestle with the backpack, the person in front of me reclines my dinner into my lap, and the snoring man in the window seat next to me begins to drool.

The only positive is that we never have a problem sitting together, even when we book last minute and only single seats on opposite ends of the plane are available. You can imagine the speed and ease of the following seat exchange: “Excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you, but would you mind terribly if we switch seats so that I can be next to my girlfriend? I’ll take 49E, your noisy, back row, near the bathroom, ‘sorry we’re out of the chicken’, center seat next to the snoring man with a runny nose. In exchange, you can have 8A, my aisle seat in the business class exit row, next to the cute college girl in the pink tank top that reads Juicy.” Sometimes these airplane seating lottery winners actually run down the aisle. I hope they enjoy the chicken.

During taxi, take-off, and landing, my job is to distract Rachel with some long, rambling story — a sort of airplane filibuster. Her job is to close her eyes tightly, breathe deeply, and squeeze my hand with the strength of ten men. When the plane encounters the inevitable turbulence, my task is to reassure her that we are not plummeting to the Earth while she again squeezes my hand down to ¼ its original size. She never believes me though. I’ll tell her that it’s just some bumps in the air, like potholes on the highway or a boat bouncing over waves. She will nod her head yes, but at the same time totally dismiss my brilliant analogies, remain panicked, if not more so, and ask a flight attendant or nearby passenger if we are about to die. These experts will tell her that it’s just some bumps in the air, like potholes on the highway or a boat bouncing over waves. She will then breathe a tiny sigh of relief, relax just a bit, and tell me it’s going to be OK. Why the credibility of my opinion is inversely proportional to the level of her panic is beyond me, but I thank her and tell her that even I feel more relaxed now that she’s consulted the seven year old sitting across the aisle.

You’d think that once we’ve landed, all would be right in Rachel’s world. Well, almost. There’s that point in the post-landing taxi where the plane stops just short of the gate, waiting for the ground personnel to attend to some task or another. The delay is never long, but for Rachel, it’s an eternity. It’s the momentary pauses that really get her. She wants the aircraft doors to fly open immediately upon landing, if not before. When the plane stops moving, and the doors don’t open right away, she concludes there must be something wrong. Although we are on the ground, at the gate, with at least a dozen trained airline staff nearby, she believes we are now trapped inside the plane, destined to rot in our seats. At least we’re near the bathroom. It doesn’t help that everyone is now standing, crowding forward, anxiously trying to retrieve their Pings. She looks out the window, sees other planes at their respective gates, and probably assumes those poor passengers are in the same sad situation. All of us, doomed.

At last the doors open, and roughly thirty-two minutes later, row 49 is allowed to exit the plane. We emerge triumphantly, although Rachel is panting and sweating as if we had just run down the long-term parking bus. Funny that our flights end the way they start. Lines and sweat.

With all of the energy we expend getting to our destination, it’s a wonder we have anything left for our vacation. I usually try to book a flight that arrives in the early evening so that by the time we go through the immigration line, the baggage claim fiasco, the customs line, the bus, train, or taxi line, and reach our hotel, it’s time for bed. Whatever adventure lies waiting outside our hotel window, be it Milan, Paris, Sydney, or I-65, it can wait until tomorrow.