Over a decade ago I wrote the following regarding a flight I took to my hometown of Newark.
“I spend the next half-hour on the line for security only to be touched in ways no one should be by a woman twice my size. Past security, there is no lounge for me. There is only the dull passenger waiting area where there are absolutely NO seats to be had. I am last to board a plane that smells like popcorn and urine. I do believe the lady sitting next to me is drunk. Well, that’s a given, she just threw up. And… OH! She missed the vomit bag. I’d hate to be the owner of that jacket she just soiled. Oh wait, I AM the owner of the jacket. “Miss, you can keep that jacket…” The flight takes off with all the gracefulness of an elephant leaping from a waterfall. It is turbulent for twelve hours until finally crash landing at the wrong airport. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we were supposed to be flying into Newark but our pilots both fell asleep for a while. It happens. You’ll be enjoying a nice weekend in Manchester, New Hampshire!” And, oh yes, they lost my luggage. Meanwhile, I still have not been handed a single drink by a stylish stewardess.”
This afternoon’s flight was markedly better. Probably because I had my daughter with me for company. We watched episodes of Air Disasters together. Other than that, not much has changed.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 