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Dear Airlines of the World:
Please accept this letter as notification of my intention to never fly again. I just can't keep putting myself through it. Every time I think I'll be OK, and on the flight to my destination I am typically OK, but always, always, on return flights home, I freak out.
True, this could be because I don't wish to actually return home. And I use the word home loosely, since it's tough for me to classify Boston as such a place. Boston is more of a holding area for me. Not unlike purgatory. Purgatory with Duck Boat Tours.
While it may be true that my freak-outs are physical manifestations of my unhappiness and discontent with Boston, they are undoubtedly instigated by the various conditions that arise from flying. Namely, turbulence. Or, as I call it, Incontinence at 40,000 Feet. All it takes is one or two little shakes, and as far as I'm concerned, my life is over. No matter how minor the turbulence may be, by the time it's abated I have already gone through my mental Death Checklist:
- Have I previously stated, clearly and concisely, my desire to be cremated? Wait, that doesn't matter. At least I'll save my parents a few bucks at the crematorium. They like to clip coupons and get bargains. They'll appreciate my going this way.
- Are all of my assets and affairs in order? Ohh, right...what assets and affairs? I leave behind a pile of debt, two cats, and the only affair to consider is my imaginary one with Adrien Brody.
- Did I accomplish everything I wanted to in this life? Umm, no. Hell no. But at least now I can have cocktails (because I damn well better be able to drink in the afterlife) with Marlene Dietrich, Heath Ledger, and Estelle Getty. That'd be sweet.
- Do the people I love know that I love them? Of course they do. I mean, I never sent out construction paper hearts with doily borders saying so, but I'm sure they know.
- If they make a TV movie out of this air disaster, who will play me? Well, that's easy, and I've surely stated this intention repeatedly in my life. The choice is obvious: Bea Arthur.
With the items of my Death Checklist ticked off, I'm as prepared as I'll ever be for that plane to plummet to Earth. I then spend the remainder of the flight awaiting the inevitable.
So you see, this is emotional torture, and I simply cannot put myself through it again. Especially after what happened the other day....
I had a doctor's appointment in Chicago on Friday, and John and I did a sort of whirlwind day-trip. We left at 6:00am, flew to Chicago, went to the appointment, hung out in the Windy City, and flew back to Boston at 11:00pm. And sure enough, as soon as that damn homeward-bound plane took off, the turbulence started.
I recently read a very helpful book about how to incorporate various Buddhist thoughts and principles into daily life. In one example, the author relayed an experience she had on an airplane. Though she'd never been prone to panic attacks or a fear of flying in the past, she suddenly found herself a nervous wreck on an airplane before it took off. She called for the flight attendant, who was very receptive and asked if she'd like to talk with the pilot. The author agreed, and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. He reassured the author that he would get her where she needed to go, safely and smoothly, and listened to and calmed all of her concerns and panic-inducing scenarios. She immediately relaxed, and mid-flight the pilot sent her a handwritten note, via the flight attendant, reiterating his promise to get her to her destination safely and what an honor it was to serve her. To this day, the author keeps this note with her whenever she flies: a talisman of serenity and assurance.
The moral of this story is that even in our darkest hours, if we just have the courage to reach out, people will be there for us. If we're falling, our compatriots will catch us. We're all part of one big human family, and we all look out for each other.
Well, on board Friday's flight, I clearly had the bitter stepchildren of the family, because this was not my experience at all when I tried to implement the author's strategy.
Once the seatbelt sign dinged off, I told John the story I've just relayed here, and how I was going to do something brave and reach out to the professionals on board to help me. I made my way to the back of the plane, where two flight attendants were stationed.
"Excuse me," I said, "I was hoping you could give me some advice. I'm not the best flyer, and I'm freaking out a bit at the moment. What do you usually tell people to help them deal with this?"
Flight Attendant #1 looked at me blankly for a moment, before turning to her colleague.
"I don't know," she said. "Phil, what do you usually tell people?"
"What?" Flight Attendant #2 replied. "I wasn't listening."
"People who are afraid to fly. What do you tell them?" she repeated.
"Oh, you'll be fine!" Phil assured me, with all the sincerity of an in-flight beverage can. "Would you like some ginger ale?"
No I don't want any fucking ginger ale, I thought. I want a handwritten note from the pilot, quelling my fears and saying "Thanks for flying this ghetto airline that delayed your flight for some unknown reason for three goddamn hours". Also, I'd like a photo of him in just his little commander's cap.
I didn't say this, of course. I declined the ginger ale, and Flight Attendant #1 chimed in.
"What don't you like?" she asked. Finally! Now we're getting somewhere!
"Is it the loss of control?" she continued. "The pressure changes? The turbulence?"
Bingo. "Yes!" I said, "The turbulence. I can't handle it."
"Well, there's not supposed to be any. Keep yourself distracted. Just don't think about it," she advised absently and returned to stocking the beverage cart.
"You'll be fine," Flight Attendant #2 repeated.
"Umm, thanks," I muttered, and went back to my seat, dejected.
Once securely buckled back in, my panic not transformed in the slightest, I pulled out the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of me. I didn't have the focus to read the book I had brought along, but maybe I could still follow #1's advice and keep myself distracted. The magazine was romantically titled "Hemispheres", and on the cover was a picture of...a great big ship.
This was surely a sign. I wasn't meant to fly ever again. I was meant to stick to land travel, relying on cars, trains, and great big shiny ships like the one beckoning me from the glossy cover of "Hemispheres". I started planning out all my future travel. There is still so much of Europe I haven't seen, but that's OK! The QE2 is back in business and more luxurious than ever! Sure, I'll have to sell a kidney and maybe one of my cat's paws to be able to afford a ticket, but it isn't air travel and I have no problem with ships or boats. Choppy waters don't bother me, I don't get seasick, and buxom young sailors...ah yes, this is the grand plan. I could disembark in Southampton and train it all around Europe. I might even be able to go to parts of Asia and Africa as well, via train or boat, but I'm still researching that. All I know is the heavens opened up and dropped an undeniable sign in my securely-buckled lap. The sign read, FUCK FLYING!
So, Airlines of the World, I turn in my frequent flyer cards, my personal collection of vomit bags, and my velor neck pillow. I will not be needing them again. It's not that I need to feel coddled and fawned over when I'm on a plane, but I do expect to be heard and, at least to a small extent, cared for. I mean, flying is ridiculously expensive for someone in my income bracket, and we don't even get a shitty meal or a heavily-edited-for-content movie anymore! The least you can do is allay my fears with a little more compassion than a plastic two-ounce cup of Canada Dry. I shudder to think how I would've been treated had I been outwardly freaking out as much as I was inwardly. Gasping for air, sweating profusely, heart racing, soiling the seat...would I still have been instructed to keep myself distracted? "Oh, you'll be fine! Just ignore that warm puddle of stink you're sitting in!"
Not that you give a fat toad's butt. I understand that airlines the world over are in dire straits and struggling mightily to avoid bankruptcy. May I suggest grounding your fleet and investing in some lovely ships, trains, and comfortable multi-passenger automobiles? I'm sure I'm not the only one who would support such a move, but I realize that this suggestion is one that you are unlikely to consider.
When it comes to bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment, and skyrocketing gas prices, I'd like to impart a little wisdom a wise old sage once gave to me.
Just don't think about it.
Safely on the Ground,
Donn Saylor
When John and I were in Hong Kong last week, we spent a day at the Tian Tan Buddha Statue & Po Lin Monastery on Lantau Island. This 34-meter high, 250-ton Buddha is the tallest outdoor seated bronze Buddha in the world (I'm assuming there was a "Biggest Buddha" pageant at some point in history, and Tian Tan won the tiara and scholarship money). It was a fascinating, and spiritually uplifting, day. Even after climbing the seemingly-endless 268 steps to the Buddha's feet, I was still feeling nourished and calm (and if you read this blog only occasionally, you know those are two feelings I rarely possess).
But something just as fascinating happened on the way back to the ferry. John and I decided to take the city bus from Tian Tan back to the ferry terminal. Taking a bus in a foreign land is always an interesting experience, and the Hong Kong bus system was infinitely better than, say, Mexico's. Once, several years ago when backpacking through the mountains of central Mexico, I relied on the buses, a.k.a. caskets-on-wheels, to get me around. They only cost half a penny or something ridiculous like that, but the ride was a matter of risking your very life. Live chickens scrambled up and down the aisle, the smell of b.o. permeated the air, and the drivers could barely see out of the window because of the massive Christ-crucified-on-the-cross decal plastered over the front windshield.
The Hong Kong bus was thankfully less flirtatious with the grave, and the journey down the mountain was pleasant and cost-effective. At one stop, a young Chinese woman boarded the bus with her baby, swaddled in the Chinese equivalent of a Baby Bjorn. The only available seat was next to me, so she and the mummified child planted themselves in the open spot.
At this point, I (and probably John too, for I heard an audible sigh of frustration) was not feeling the whole baby thing. On our flight from New York to Hong Kong, the plane was loaded with about two dozen screaming Chinese babies, many of whom screeched and wailed for the entire 17-hour flight. I figured I would just ignore this baby on the bus and stare at the bald, liver-spotted head of the Australian octogenarian in front of me.
But as soon as I make rules like that for myself, I have to break them. There was no way I could convince myself to continue an Australian scalp check when a pleasantly-quiet baby was at my side. Babies are like Chia Pets to me: some makes and models are cute, but if you don't care for them properly, their beautiful green hair/foliage falls out. Well, you get my point.
And so, after a few minutes, I slowly, tentatively, turned my head to the Bjorn-ed baby. And hark this: the kid was smiling at me. Beaming, really. He had been grinning at me the whole time. Actually, she had been grinning at me (the yellow jumper threw me for a while, but the tiny pink shoes gave her away). Then she started to wave at me, and I, a quivering mass of sap at this point, waved back. I was a little surprised she was so taken with me, as babies tend to sense my Chia Pet phobia and don't concern themselves with me. (For the record, I'm usually fine with this chain of events.)
Yet Nameless Chinese Baby was different. She was cute, yes, and winning me over with her chubby smiles and lopsided waves, but she was connecting with me and touching upon that part of me that is typically dormant. That part of me that, despite my choice to be childless, is capable of great paternal feeling and affection. Yes, Nameless Chinese Baby sensed that, and said, "I will win you over." And that she did. Especially with what happened next.
She started to briskly pat her hands together, which I interpreted as an attempt at clapping. Since babies in movies are always clapping or playing peek-a-boo, I clapped lightly in response. Until I realized that she wasn't clapping at all.
You see, Nameless Chinese Baby was attempting to clasp her hands together. She was praying for me. At that point, I heard her mother say to her, in English, "That's right. Pray for each other." And with that, the baby smiled and folded her hands in a gesture of prayer, which is also the way (along with a slight bow) that Buddhists show respect. This baby, a stranger with sassy pink dwarf shoes, on a public bus in a strange land, was showing me reverence and respect. Not for what I have or have not accomplished; not for how much money I make or don't make; not for my nationality, religion, politics, gender, sexual orientation, or age. She was showing me appreciation for just being.
For a fleeting second when this was happening -- before the cold raw truth of poopy diapers and three a.m. feedings and endlessly torturous hours of Teletubbies and that freakish purple dinosaur set in -- I thought how it might not be so bad to have a kid after all. Obviously, Nameless Chinese Baby's mother was instilling some very important, very beautiful lessons in her daughter. I knew that if I had the same chance at parenthood, I would pass along those same lessons to my own child: respect everyone...for no other reason than we are all on this bus together.
"There are no atheists on turbulent airplanes." -Erica Jong, "Fear of Flying"
I was just as surprised as you.
As I readjust to the everyday, I am compiling lists of blogging topics inspired by my trip to Bali and Hong Kong. Posts of the adventure will assuredly follow, but for the time being I'm just putting my thoughts in order. The foremost right now is that I was so worried about John wigging out on airport juntas that I really failed to inspect my own fear of flying. Damn, sometimes I really *bleeping* hate irony.
I needn't have worried about John at all. He was wonderfully calm and cooperative with all security personnel and checkpoints, plane trips and airline crews, and fellow travelers. He didn't even need to take all of the prescribed sedatives. I am insanely proud of him. And I'm not trying to sound like Mother Teresa here, but I am really, truly grateful that I was the one who ended up having the panic attacks and not him. I want no one, especially my Johnny, to experience the absolute terror of an anxiety blitzkrieg.
While John's panic comes from a different (and more sensible) place, mine is rooted in a good old fashioned fear of flying. This is something I genuinely believed I was over and done with. When I was younger, I was petrified to get on a plane, but a 20-hour journey to Australia when I was 18 changed that. Over the years, I've flown, on average, twice a year, and with the rare exception of one horrendous flight (thank Christ I was still drinking then), all of my air travel has been unremarkable and without incident.
That Australia trip was my first real plane ride, not counting the Pan-Am trek to Orlando when I wasn't even a year old. (Incidentally, my parents tell me I screamed bloody murder all the way to Florida. So, you see, I've never been good on planes.) Before we left for Sydney, I worked for months with my therapist on my fear, and at one point, she asked me to imagine my fear as an object. The first thing that popped into my head was "potato". This is interesting because, as I'm sure you well know, the potato is a root vegetable: rooted firmly, unshakably, in the ground. My mascot for that maiden voyage became a Mister Potato Head, to remind me that no matter how high in the air I soared, I was always planted squarely on the ground. Nothing could change that. Not even a Boeing 747 with bad chunky coffee and a hunky Aussie flight attendant named Dirk.
So how is it that, after 13 years of relatively panic-free air travel, my old fear reemerged on the return flight from Asia? The plane rides on the way there were fine, or, more accurately, I was fine on them. This could be because John's whole family was with me on those departing flights; on the way home, it was just John and myself (we all left on different days). I was seated between John and his sister Lisa, who, though just a few years older than me, has always had a very motherly energy toward me. It could also be because those flights were, for the most part, very smooth and tremor-free. On the flight back to the States, it was a different story. There was turbulence. A lot of it.
And ah, there's the rub. My fear is not about control issues (I'm perfectly happy letting the professionals fly the plane). Or claustrophobia (though I can sometimes be slightly claustrophobic, it doesn't happen on airplanes). Or hijacking (that thought honestly never occurs to me). Or moral quandary (I once had a friend I was half in-love with, who thought she was Greta Garbo, and felt morally conflicted about flying because it just didn't seem right that there was this big mechanical bird soaring through the sky, taking us to strange new lands).
It's about the turbulence. I hate it. I *bleeping* hate it (let's see how many times I can say "bleeping" in this post).
Now I know that turbulence is nothing to be afraid of, that it's perfectly normal and planes don't crash because of it, that those big hulking intricate vessels cannot possibly be undone by a little uneven air. But fear is not rational. Fear does not listen to the experts. Fear does not buy the unwavering, ever-smiling, perpetually-bubbly faces of the flight attendants (which, I suspect, is a class in Stewardess School: "How to Keep Your Face Unfazed & Beaming Beatifically While the Plane Shakes Faster Than A Loco Vibrator").
My unreasonable fright introduced a whole series of terrifying symptoms as soon as that plane started to rattle and the seat belt like ding-donged on. First, I couldn't breathe, and the exertion and focus it took to simply draw breath was nearly impossible. Then my heart started beating faster than Charo's chi-chis. Next my stomach tightened sickeningly, and I felt as if I would lose my surprisingly-delicious vegan meal all over the sleeping Asian in front of me. I mean, how could that freak sleep?!?!? Didn't she know we were about to go down??? Didn't she realize that at any moment one of the wings was going to snap off and we were going to plummet into the ocean??? I may seem angry at the soundly-dozing chick, but in reality I was just wildly jealous of her calm. Erica Jong was right, as she so often is: there really are no atheists on turbulent plane rides. As soon as that jet commenced its awful hurdling, I was praying to Jesus, Buddha, Allah, The Goddess, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, anyone. You name it, I invoked it.
It also doesn't help that I've seen one-too-many disaster flicks. "Fearless" is one of my favorite films, and the plane crash scene is both beautiful and barf-inducingly realistic. All those 80s TV movies about air disasters are also firmly submerged in my mind. I remember one starring Ana "Falcon Crest" Alicia, where the roof of a Hawaii-bound jet is ripped off during flight over the Pacific. It was a true story.
Which leads me to believe that the airline industry, which always seems to be in need of money, should have little pharmacies on every plane. Each one should be staffed by a doctor/pharmacist, who can freely supply meds at passenger request. Don't laugh, this is a very good idea. Everybody wins. The airlines make a cut of the sale. The drug companies, ever eager to continue their quest of world domination, could now claim ownership of the clouds. And the fearful passengers like me could be drooling contentedly in La La Land while the plane lurches, shakes, and shimmies toward its destination.
So it came to pass that my husband, who I feared would panic-attack himself all the way across the Pacific, ended up comforting me. He offered me his sedatives (I took one, but it didn't help). He soothed me with comforting words. He sang me funny songs he learned 25 years ago at camp ("'Someone's been eatin' my porridge!' said the Papa Bear..."). He held my hand. That helped most of all.
Right now I'm at a place where I don't want to fly at all. This is challenging because I travel for my job, and I love to travel for leisure. But I'm just scared that the next time I'm in my fully-upright seat (I think reclining an airplane seat is the height of rudeness, since it pretty much prostrates you into the lap of the person sitting behind you), and that big mechanical bird starts fluttering its wings, I'm going to end up in a straight-jacket before we touch ground.
And that's the *bleeping* truth.
Before I go any further, please be aware that I have not slept in over 24 hours and am currently marveling at the sea of magenta dots and neon blue starfish swimming around the room. Yeah, I'm tired. Really tired.
Over the coming days, I will of course blog all about my amazing spiritual and cultural odyssey in Bali. We arrived home a few hours ago. I can only say that I feel like someone who's had an out-of-body experience and is still trying to wake up and readjust to this old, earthly body. Long story short, I'm not quite back yet.
Once I get my bearings, I'll relate some tales from my travels. But for the time being, all I want to know is who the hell let that green, beret-wearing armadillo in the house?
(Make that really, really tired.)
Okey-dokey. The bags are packed, the sedatives are in the carry-on, and I have enough reading material to wallpaper midtown Manhattan. It's a cold, rainy day in Boston, and in just a few minutes we will be making our way to the Clusterfuck Mecca known as Logan Airport.
To my loyal readers -- all two of you, I'm still unsure if I will be posting while on vacation. John will have his laptop, so I may feel the need to blog. Then again, I might be too busy getting rubbed by strange Balinese men. I'm talking massages here -- get your minds outta the gutter!
Ta.
Can I just say something?
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
There. I feel better.
Who knew a relaxing three-week vacation in Bali would require such stress-inducing preparation? Well, OK, I did sorta have an idea that I would suffer some last-minute freak-outs when deciding what to pack and prep. Here's my list:
-Benzodiazepines: A) to keep my husband from spontaneously combusting when confronted with TSA, Homeland Security, and foreign government officials; and B) to keep yours truly from having a total nervous breakdown (I'm not the best flier), regressing to a fetal position, and soiling my undies.
-Underwear. Lots of it. In case those benzos don't work.
-Picture of the cats, so I can pull out the photograph exactly five minutes after we leave and start talking to it in my Baby Daddy voice: "Who loves his little orange man? Who loves his black-and-white cookie? It's Li'l Daddy! Li'l Daddy loves you, yes he does!"
-Guided meditations on my iPod. Because I am deluded enough to believe that it is my concentration, and my concentration alone, that keeps that plane aloft.
-Sweaters, even though we are going to the Tropics. The subzero temperatures onboard commercial aircrafts are extreme enough to store venison, build igloos, embark upon sleigh rides, and cause my nipples to sprout icicles.
-Sunblock. If one day on the Caribbean turned me into Sebastian from "The Little Mermaid", I fear what will happen during three weeks on the Equator. I could possibly come home looking like a bucket of Colonel Sanders' Extra Crispy recipe.
-Clif Bars. I don't know how to say "vegan" in either Indonesian or Chinese.
-A currency conversion cheat sheet, because whenever I visit a foreign country and make a purchase, I tend to just hand all my cash to the cashier. I realize now that's probably not the most savvy thing to do.
-Deodorant. Anxiety/fear = sweat. Sweat = stinky pits. Stinky pits = fried onion rings. And I highly doubt anyone will believe there is a deep fat fryer on the plane.
-In the immortal words of Edina "AbFab" Monsoon: "Tickets, money, passports! Tickets, money, passports!". Cuz those things are important, and none of the above items would be useful without them.
All right. Time to pack. But before I do, can I just say one last thing?
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Now. Where did I put my suitcase....?
