Family of One Flies on Regional Jets

In a week that has been marked by outbursts not just inconsiderate, but downright uncivil, I wanted to share an experience that connects yet another family--the Family of Frequent Fliers. This week, I flew on back-to-back regional jets from Greensboro, NC to Charleston, SC. Never my favorite mode of transportation, I am finding the two claustrophobic flights to be top candidates for fraying my nerves on a regular basis.

On the first flight, I was seated next to a youngish man who appeared to have an occupation as perhaps a rodeo rider. His "daddy" could not find his seat and demanded that I let him have mine. I let Clint Eastwood, Junior handle the situation since it was determined that Daddy's seat was two rows back. But, then, once in the air, how nonplussed was I to find this young man using a Dr. Pepper plastic bottle as his spittoon. Approximately every 90 seconds, he let go a long stream of tobacco juice into the bottle. This was a first---and, I hope, a last--for me. I tried keeping my left hand over the side of my face as a quasi-screen, but it was not much use. Goodness.

On to the second flight.

I boarded this regional jet with my standard black carry-on, the exact suitcase that you and thousands of others have. As i was in row 2, I looked for a convenient overhead bin, but every bin was full until about row 12. In what I promise you was a lovely, kind voice, I asked the attendant why the bins were so full. She replied in a frosty, tense voice that those were the crew's bags. I did not ask the question that was on my lips--why in the name of Amelia Earhart would the crew take up all the space at the front of the plane--but said to her, "would it be easier for you to check this bag?" She rolled her eyes and said, "There is no way that I am taking this bag back to baggage claim for you. You made the choice to bring this bag on the plane, it is up to you to find a place for it". Once again, the word "nonplussed" sprang to mind as most attendants almost dance with glee at the thought of having one less bag in the cabin. Thankfully, a kinder attendant named Jeremiah came from the back of the plane and said that he would find a place for the bag and that he would make sure that I got it as soon as the plane landed.

Now, it is time for me to take my seat--2F. There is a casually, but elegantly, dressed gentleman in 2D. I say--once again in a lovely tone--"sir, could I trouble you to let me take my seat?" He stands up, but snarls at me, "An excuse me, sir would have been enough and even preferred--don't you have any manners?"

As I sit down, he says to the aforementioned hellcat of an attendant, "this is exactly what we have been talking about" and points at me as if I am Kanye West at the VMAs. She screams with flirtatious laughter and says, "yes, she is a perfect example."

Once seated, I say to the gentleman, "Sir, I am sorry if I have offended you but not using the phrase excuse me, but I felt that I was awfully polite in the way I asked if you would let me in". Again, he snarled, "it's obvious that you have no manners."

Just when I think that things cannot get any more uncomfortable, the attendant takes the microphone and proceeds to regale the cabin with the fact that Republic Airlines, our regional carrier for the flight, is known for their witty and warm conversations with the passengers. She proceeds to read her itinerary for the next several weeks, pausing to trash Greensboro, NC and what she insists on calling Myrtle Beach, North Carolina as particularly backwards places. She then talks to each person in the first two rows, pointedly ignoring me, and asking each person to tell a little bit about themselves. To a woman with one young child, she delivers a five minute lecture on the importance of not having another child for a long time.

I am reminded of the wonderful scene in Annie Hall when Woody Allen wishes for a sock filled with a manure to use on a self-important moviegoer standing close to him in line.

I manage to avoid any further exchanges on this dreadful flight by keeping my Pat Conroy novel completely held upright and completely in front of my face.

Once landed, I ask the attendant if it would be better for me to deplane and have Jeremiah bring my bag to me to prevent my holding up the line. In an exasperated voice that implies I have the IQ of Cheetah, she says, "if you step off this plane, we are not responsible for what happens to your bag". So, when some unfortunate soul about midway back gets caught between the seats, I take the opportunity to race back and get my bag and, I must admit, haughtily depart the aircraft.

You will be relieved to know that I only have one regional jet flight tomorrow.