I’ve missed writing about travel. Probably because travel means things are unique, different and unexpected and provide loads of new writing material. We’ve been living in Bahrain so long that I’ve run out of interesting things to blog about because strange has become normal. Like running out of gas when I’m trying to cook dinner and having to wait until the propane people come to our neighborhood (the guy on the phone always says, “tomorrow inshallah,” but it never is) before I can cook again. (Gas still hadn’t been delivered by the time we left for vacation. Poor Josie.)
This trip is unique because it’s the first time our family has flown Space-A on the rotator (called such because unlike most Space-A flights, this one has a predictable rotation and flies the same route every other week). I can guess where the plane is going to go a particular week by counting “this week Spain, this week Italy . . . Spain, Italy, Spain, Italy” every other Friday on my calendar like a grown up version of “eenie, meanie, minie, moe” hoping that the right location falls on my travel dates. This might sound confusing since this vacation took us to neither Spain nor Italy, but the plane always lands in Crete before continuing on to Naples (Italy), so that’s the way I think about it in my head.
It’s no wonder I’m calling this trip Inshallah 2014. This past week I had to watch the airport terminal Facebook page for updates and schedule changes (since all flights are subject to change it’s the easiest way for them to publicize the frequent adjustments to flight times). We originally had a report time of 8pm, then it was pushed back to 10pm and finally the day before it settled on 1:30am and stayed there.
We were debating the best way to approach getting on the flight. We were pretty positive we’d be granted seats because we were in a high priority category since Josh was flying with us and because there are always plenty of seats to Crete. One option was to send Josh at 1:30 in the morning with the luggage and let the kids sleep until we were closer to flight time (estimated at 6:30am — yes, you have to show up that early to get a seat. That’s the price of “free.”)
We decided that 1:30 wasn’t any worse than 4:30 or 5:30am so it would be easiest to spend the night at the “airport,” the small military passenger terminal that is more of an outdoor seating area with picnic tables than what you’d see at SFO or LAX. I brought a blanket to lay on the ground and sweatshirts to use as pillows for the time in between check-in and departure. It took about an hour of creeping and inching forward in the sticky night heat before we made it to the front of the line, were confirmed on the flight, and checked our bags. It was humid and sweltering and hotter than I’ve ever felt at 1am. Surrounded by masses of people it felt like we were all refugees, if refugees carried REI backpacks and military issued bags.
Poor sweaty girl
At check in we turned over our bags and had to tell them how much we weighed — not just the bags, but
my body. Is that a thing now?! It doesn’t inspire confidence when they are tallying up every last pound on a flight, as if my Ben & Jerry’s the night before might be the difference between making it off the ground or not. Then we were “free” until boarding, several hours away. So we lay in the heat and I pretended to sleep which is what I do half the time in bed anyway, so it wasn’t much different than a normal interrupted night’s sleep. We thought we weren’t going to leave until 6:30am, but surprise! at 3:30 we got word that we were heading to the plane and by 4:15 we were in the air.
It’s a fun wait when you’re with friends
So now we’ve been up all night and all I want to do is lie fly on my stomach to sleep, but airline seats make that kind of impossible. Camille stretched out across her seat and Josh’s lap and I balled myself up 22 different ways to catch 22 mini catnaps over the next 3 hours. The best one was side lying, using Camille as a pillow and the pocket of the seat back as a sling for my feet, but that killed my neck after a while.
I’ve become a much better flyer, but I still doubt myself before every trip — what if I start feeling claustrophobic? What if the fears rise up again and strike when I have no way of escape?
Now I know that the audible “bings” aren’t emergencies, but signals to the flight attendants. And circling before landing doesn’t mean that a terrorist is on the ground and we are going to run out of gas like a personal version of Die Hard 2, but that the pilot is waiting for free airspace and we’ll land as soon as the sky opens up. And I remind myself that clouds make things bumpy, just like driving down a gravel road. But I still feel a bit of a thrill when our wheels touch down because it means that I just accomplished something that was once impossible.
As I’m waiting for those wheels to touch down right now, ocean on one side, mountains on the other, I’m thinking, Welcome to Greece! You did it Rob!
