Alison Bezzina

 

 

Cultures and people are different. Some you gawk at some you gladly join, some you find ridiculous and some, you will never bother to get to know. Admittedly, Visiting other countries has its charm but some talk about travel in such rapturous terms because they never tried anything more adventurous than not doing their homework in the third grade.

  

When a friend of mine returned from Canada last year, she kept repeating the same thing to anyone who would listen - with the awe of a five year old at the entrance of Disney Land, she’d say - “when I saw the Niagara Falls I realized just how small we humans really are.” Clearly the 168,000 cubic meters of water that are mentioned in every single travel guide, had not given her the slightest clue about the grandiosity of this natural wonder.

I realize of course, that my travel gene is defective because as much as I love the idea of letting everything go and taking off to any part of the world, I also hate the stress, uncertainty, and the inevitable pocket-bleed that comes with all forms of travel. And, as is the case with all my other defects, I’m absolutely not to blame for this incongruity in my character. You see, my parents are poles apart when it comes to travel. My father would rather have his toe nails pulled and fed to him in a dry bun than take a trip to anywhere. My mother on the other hand, would gladly eat them with hot chilies, if it got him to take just one trip with her. He hates travelling so much he’d easily have you thinking that his last trip included a major theft, a monster-infested hotel room, a cockroach breakfast, and a life changing body search at the airport. But the truth is that my dad has not travelled in twenty years, and at the time airports and airlines were by far more humane than they are today. In fact, when you compare them to the ordeals that they presently put travelers through, they were absolutely perfect.

For starters, airport security did not have a problem with your baby’s milk. Even if the bottle contained more than 100ml of the white stuff, some sophisticated technology told airport security personnel that if they saw your child drinking it without instantly growing horns, then it was probably ok for them to open the door and just let you and your baby through. Even smoking was still allowed on aircrafts at the time, and as much as I would hate to be stuck in a closed space with cigarette smoke being forced up my nostrils, I have to say that second-hand smoke is the last risk we should be worried about when travelling by air. Just taking off has become such a big deal that it is amazing how we don’t lose our marbles before we are even airborne.

First we are put through the whole security saga of measuring, weighing, scanning and sniffing our luggage; then we have to answer ridiculous questions aimed at determining whether our dog could have sneaked something electronically illegal in our bags; then we end up dealing with cheap airline alternatives to anything resembling a service, and when we’re finally seated in a space smaller than an Ethiopian’s larder, they make us adjust our seat in the upright, most uncomfortable position, and patronizingly explain how to fasten the seatbelt. Isn’t it obvious that if we don’t know how to fasten our seatbelt we probably shouldn't be out in public unsupervised? Having said that, the seatbelt’s only purpose is to stop you from zooming out of the cockpit in case of impact. Instead the seatbelt will kill you instantly with its steel force against your stomach.

Once in the air and the plane has reached ‘cruising’ altitude, the cabin lights are dimmed to enhance the appearance of the flight attendants and soon after food and alcohol are served to compliment the cruising experience. Of course if you pay peanuts for your flight, that’s all you’ll get for dinner, but if you’re willing to pay for alcohol, any airline will oblige. I just don’t get it! What’s the use of giving everyone a detailed lecture on safety procedures and a minute later start serving alcohol? Isn’t this like being asked to sit for a test (that your life literally depends upon), whilst under the influence of high altitude craziness, inconsistent cabin pressure, restrictive space, and undisclosed amounts of Calpol? Seriously! Why bother explaining how I can use the cushion I’m sitting on as a floating device, if you’re going to let me consume enough alcohol that will make it impossible for me to get up and release the cushion from under my generous bottom?

The truth is that once you’re up there, you’re always a hostage. You’re totally dependent on the captain, the crew and the strength of their happy pills. There’s absolutely nothing you can do but to wait until the captain brings the aircraft to a screeching halt, hopefully before it reaches the gate or the sea. And once your bladder has exploded and the tire smoke has cleared up, all you can do to pay them back is to calmly leave the aircraft leaving behind only unwanted items... like children and annoying family members.

First published on The Sunday Times Travel Supplement October 2008