The Beginning
The first day of travel is inevitably the longest, and this was no exception. It started in the airport of O’Hare International where I was both blessed and cursed at once. I arrived to the airport nearly 3 hours before my departure time. Trying to be ahead of the game. Well, all was remarkable when I got my ticket, walked the airport, got through security, and found my gate all in 10 minutes or less. Seriously. I have had quick usherings through the airport before, but never like that. Golden. Yet, my luck had run out when I discovered that my terminal did not offer food of any kind. Zip. Zilch.
The only way to obtain food would be to go back the way you came, seek out your food, and then go back through the intense busy security, which only the clinically insane, overtly stupid, or incurably ravenous would attempt. And so I sat with a sad granola bar to tease me.
The airport was a wonderfully diverse crowd, as usual. There were the readers – deeply entrenched within the novels of choice. There were the retirees looking confused and a bit scared. The teenagers roam about, their mops of hair causing them to stumble over their baggy pants. Then there are the wanderers – those that cannot bear to sit down and casually drift, perhaps confused, and soon to be retirees.
With a proper smile and the use of a cheerful word I was able to secure a seat directly behind first class – affording me much more leg room. Crossing one’s legs in flight is a keen and often-overlooked luxury. Also, by stroke of luck, no irish-pun intended, no one was set to sit next to me. Such comfort. It's the small things.
Cruising speeds were set to 520 mph, at 37,000 feet, though you can’t notice.
Last bit of note: The complimentary beverage is laughable at best. It is a can of pop, 2 ounces at most. That’s like being complimented on being able to digest. The smell of in flight dinners floats through the air as they are heated, or in reality, re-heated. It smells quite good, which means I am ridiculously hungry. To a starving man a shank steak tastes like a 5 star porterhouse. Perhaps that is the key behind the lack of food in the terminal, post-security. Starve the people and then appear the benevolent Lord when you arrive with stale rolls and a hunk of crusty cheese.
The only way to obtain food would be to go back the way you came, seek out your food, and then go back through the intense busy security, which only the clinically insane, overtly stupid, or incurably ravenous would attempt. And so I sat with a sad granola bar to tease me.
The airport was a wonderfully diverse crowd, as usual. There were the readers – deeply entrenched within the novels of choice. There were the retirees looking confused and a bit scared. The teenagers roam about, their mops of hair causing them to stumble over their baggy pants. Then there are the wanderers – those that cannot bear to sit down and casually drift, perhaps confused, and soon to be retirees.
With a proper smile and the use of a cheerful word I was able to secure a seat directly behind first class – affording me much more leg room. Crossing one’s legs in flight is a keen and often-overlooked luxury. Also, by stroke of luck, no irish-pun intended, no one was set to sit next to me. Such comfort. It's the small things.
Cruising speeds were set to 520 mph, at 37,000 feet, though you can’t notice.
Last bit of note: The complimentary beverage is laughable at best. It is a can of pop, 2 ounces at most. That’s like being complimented on being able to digest. The smell of in flight dinners floats through the air as they are heated, or in reality, re-heated. It smells quite good, which means I am ridiculously hungry. To a starving man a shank steak tastes like a 5 star porterhouse. Perhaps that is the key behind the lack of food in the terminal, post-security. Starve the people and then appear the benevolent Lord when you arrive with stale rolls and a hunk of crusty cheese.
posted by Caleb Jordan Schulz @ 2:09 PM
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