That Longing Which The Aeroplane Cheats
…the longing for the noiseless, gracious, economical flight of a bird, that longing which the aeroplane cheats, except in rare moments, seen high and by wind and distance noiseless, turning in the sun….
—Tolkien, “On Fairy Stories”
Ok, it’s official: I hate to fly. That’s what I was thinking a few days ago as I passed the last security inspection before boarding a plane for the first time in several years. I suppose one gets used to it, but I’m a very infrequent flier, and for me it’s mostly stress: make a mad dash; now wait, but don’t relax; hurry up; stand in line; watch the time; watch your bag; watch your step; listen to the announcements although they’re 98% irrelevant, lest you miss the one that matters (this happened to me once: I didn’t notice the announcement of a gate change and would have missed the flight if it hadn’t been delayed).
The stress begins with planning the trip to the airport. I don’t do well with a rigid deadline imposed on me by others, where there is a serious penalty for not meeting it and a number of things not under my control that could interfere with my doing so, such as traffic conditions. How early do we need to get there? How long might the lines be? What are the security procedures like these days? What are we thinking of taking with us that could cause us a problem? How much is three ounces of shampoo? What are they doing with computers now (not too many years ago you had to turn them on)? Cell phones? MP3 players? If I take my iPod with me, will they confiscate it? Or if I pack it in the bag I’m going to check, will they take the whole thing out somewhere and blow it up? In the end I leave the iPod at home; likewise my laptop.
It’s hard to find a parking place at the airport. It’s a long walk to the terminal, and I never have enough hands for everything I’m trying to carry: you need quick access to ticket and ID, but you can’t take a chance on losing them. And you have to choose between lugging bags around a terminal for what could be a long way and a long time between connecting flights, or checking them and running a real risk that they won’t go where you’re going. Come to that, there’s a real risk that you won’t get where you’re going when you were supposed to, now that cancellations and delays have become so commonplace. Stand in line to check your bags. Stand in line to have them inspected by TSA. Stand in line to be inspected. And all these procedures are a bit different from one airport to the other.
It’s not that the TSA people are unpleasant—most are not, and one small middle-aged blonde woman with cheerful eyes is much the contrary. But most are brusque and cool at best, ready to turn belligerent, as is usually the case with people who have to run other people through a series of mechanistic procedures. And it only takes one or two who seem actively hostile to get me into the same frame of mind, since the whole process is intrinsically irritating. The removal of shoes and emptying of pockets leaves me feeling faintly embarrassed and obscurely vulnerable, almost helpless. I’m anxious and undecided about some items: will the rosary in my pocket set off the metal detectors? Should I throw it into the basket? Change? Keys? What if somebody grabs them? My poor wife has metal pins in one knee because of a fall from a ladder seven or eight years ago, and the metal detectors nearly always detect them. “Step over here, please,”—not discourteous but stern. “I need a female agent,” comes over the intercom.
Well, at least it’s the pleasant blonde woman; my wife doesn’t have to be searched by that pompous-looking guy. But Blondie is thorough. For five minutes my wife is waving her arms, turning around, unsnapping her jeans to prove that the waistband is not explosive. The jeans make it impossible for her to support her story by exhibiting the prominent scar on her knee.
At last we’re released into the gate area, like cattle out of a chute. The crowd disperses down the concourse. It’s been several hours since we left home. “Family Restroom”? What the hell? Keep on till you see a Men’s.
“Don’t be grouchy.”
“I’m not.”
“You look grouchy.”
It’s only when I’m seated at the gate, looking out at the tower and the vast expanse of runway that I feel some hint of the old jet-age kick that airports once gave me, back when flying was a rarity for most people except executives (whatever they were), when you got dressed up to fly, when there were no metal detectors and searches but there were meals on the plane. It’s official, and it’s sad, to think that I hate to fly: there used to be such a promise about it. Flying was new, it was clean, it was modern, and most of all it partook of the shining future. It wasn’t this grim, harried business. It’s a victim of its own success; it’s like taking the bus.
Once in the air, though, I do feel a bit of the old transcendence: the sight of the small, small, small world below, and of the cloudscapes never meant to be seen by creaturely eyes save those of a few eagles and dwellers in the Himalayas.
As we land in Atlanta I can see planes taking off, and I still love to watch it, the way the plane seems to leap off the ground when the nose comes up, the way it seems so impossible and yet continues to happen successfully over and over and over. If our technological civilization should collapse I hope there will remain some way that our inheritors will still be able to see this sight; it is an image of our time.
When we touch down someone toward the back of the plane cheers.
“I always feel like doing that,” says my wife, relieved.
“Really?” I say. I’m a little surprised, and I realize this is the first time in thirty years of marriage that we’ve ever flown together—the little flying I’ve done from time to time has all been work-related. And for my part I don’t feel like cheering upon touchdown, but am rather a bit disappointed; there’s a brief but distinct touch of sadness when I know that I’m back to the literally mundane.
When I die
Hallelujah by and by
I’ll fly away
Pre-TypePad
Light On Dark Water 
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