Buses with Wings

On my last flight back home I was having a hard time sleeping. Then the kid in the row next to mine shot out projectile vomit covering the seats in front of him and the aisle. That poor kid. That poor mother. The mother spent the next half hour on the floor with paper towels trying to mop up the regurgitated airplane cuisine. Not one flight attendant offered a hand or even a trash can or more paper towels. The woman's husband didn't offer to help either, but that's another topic.

Watching that mother on her hands and knees as the flight attendants stepped over her made me consider getting up to help. But then, the stench of vomit was already so strong (and it lasted the remainder of the flight) that I knew if I got any closer I'd be no help. I guess only a mother can clean up vomit without puking her own guts up.

Once the chunks were cleaned up, she placed paper towels over the spot. Passengers would get a running start to clear the mess. Half the time, the had to hold on to the backs of our seats to keep themselves airborne.

Then came the flight attendant with a can of smelly stuff to hide the stench. So we spent the rest of the flight smelling chemical vomit and getting rocked back and forth by those whose long jump wasn't quite long enough. Wouldn't you think they'd have a system for cleaning up puke? After all, they have puke bags. Ah, but not this poor kid. Just as he was getting sick his mother searched the pocket for the bag. With no bag in sight, out it came and shrieks from those sitting in the row in front followed.

There's an article in today's New York Times about the class conflict on airlines. You know the drill. All the special people board first and are being served cocktails as you walk through the first- and business-class cabins. They look relaxed as if they may even be given a massage during the flight. You pass them, feeling a bit insignificant and make your way to your seat only to find it's been assigned to someone else. You're gripped by fear because you know the airline won't think twice about bumping you to the next flight. You're in coach.

It's not that those who pay big bucks don't deserve edible food and wine that won't cause a headache. But must they flaunt their privilege as we are herded back to our minuscule seats? Flights today are more like bus rides. Crappy movies with malfunctioning audio, overpriced stale snacks, and bathrooms that make you dream of an outdoor music festival's port-o-potty.

When I first started traveling overseas, I remember being given a beautiful menu with three courses listed and a selection of beverages presented as if I were dining along the Seine. I used to look forward to a transatlantic flight. I got to sit back, watch a good movie, spend hours reading my book, head to the back to hang out with the other passengers and talk about our travels, meet the flight attendants and fantasize about their adventures.

I bet back then the flight attendants knew how to handle a puddle of vomit without a can of spray. And I bet the kid would have had a puke bag.