Come drive me to the moon…
I was around twenty years old, in the early seventies, when I flew for the first time. It was a one-hour flight from Algiers, where I was studying computer science, to Annaba, in the east of the country.
I loved my first sky experience in a white French Caravelle aeroplane. My elder brother told me that it was the only plane that could glide back down to Earth if both of its rotors failed. I have never bothered checking that fact. I just believed him, just as I did when he told me that chemtrails left by planes were to make them visible when they entered foreign airspace.
My first flight was in the days when passengers were offered, depending on take-off time, fresh croissants and coffee at breakfast, maybe a sandwich and a cold drink at lunch or a lovely soup and half a French baguette at dinner. All this was included in the price of the ticket, and there was no restriction on the weight of suitcases.
On long hauls, flights that lasted over two hours, a delicious hot meal was graciously offered. Starter, main course, dessert, cheese, a cold drink and a hot one. And this was long before airlines began charging exorbitant prices for a simple cold chicken wrap that tastes like a wet towel.
Air hostesses looked like film stars in their designer uniforms as opposed to today’s flight attendants who are worked harder than supermarket checkout operators, made to sell, sell, sell throughout the flight. I really used to enjoy air travel.
Nowadays, I dread it. Just thinking about having to get to the airport two hours before take-off fills me with anxiety. At check-in, I always worry that the cheap scale I used to weigh my suitcase was accurate. It is not fun going through the rigmarole of having to discard unwanted items to achieve the allotted weight or having to pay an excessive amount for each extra ounce. Then come the dreaded scanners. Shoes and belt off. Pockets emptied of loose change. Trays filled with laptop, iPad, mobile, keys, passport, boarding pass, jacket, glasses…
Past the scanners, I thoroughly check the trays just in case I forget my passport, pass or mobile. Onward to the cafes or bars to recover from the dreadful experience and try and enjoy the overpriced drinks and food on offer.
Before my last return trip from Alicante, I went to a nice Panaderia, (bakery) in a village close to the airport. After enjoying a lovely breakfast, I purchased a delicious open cheese and salad sandwich for the equivalent of a couple of quid.
When I opened the bag after making it through customs, I could feel like the other passengers’ gaze as they chewed on their wet towels.
The couple seated next to me enquired where I had got the “lovely” sandwich. I confessed that I had smuggled it through Customs.
Given the choice between flying and driving, I would definitely drive to my destination especially now, in retirement, when time is no longer of the essence. I can set off and stop when I want.