Coonridge Digest: Flying days are over

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

I’ve taken my last flight.

And it’s sad. I’m one of the few bleary souls who not only enjoy travel, but I even take some pleasure in the flight itself. Maybe I’m a farm kid still thrilled by the big, bad outside world, but I’ve found some joy in even the worst travel experiences. That’s why it’s such a shame that the airlines have kicked me off.

No, it’s not the size of the seat, although the new airline parameters are fast closing in on my perimeters. It’s the new guidelines on screening sick passengers.

SARS and other bothersome epidemics have forced the airlines to screen passengers at three key points: the baggage counter, at the gate, and in the plane. Although I feel pretty good when I fly, there’s not a chance in Helvetica that I’ll pass their screening tips.

At the Baggage Counter. "The ticket agent examining the photo identification will compare the picture with the traveler’s face, looking for skin coloration and observing general demeanor." I’m sunk.

Have you looked at your photo I.D.? In person I’m a suave, good-looking Midwesterner showing only mild signs of wear. But gremlins crawl into any photo advice pointing my direction and turn me into a wrinkled old relic who looks a great deal like those old gunfighters whose bodies they used to prop up with sticks for a final tintype death shot. They won’t have to look at my face. Once they see the photo they’ll figure I’m too sick to fly. They may wonder what I’m doing out of my casket.

If it’s a connecting flight, forget it. I’ve been up for 36 hours, the bags under my eyes have developed little baguettes of their own, and my hair is now the shape of a Northwestern head cushion. I’m sunk. I’ll never fly again.

But if the great gods of aviation suffer a flight of whimsy and actually let me past the screener at the baggage counter, I’m faced with…

At The Gate. "Airline passengers will watch how passengers manage getting around with their bags and whether they sit normally or slump down in the waiting-area seats." Oh God help me. I’m truly sunk.

I have been known to wrestle carry-on bags to a draw on the carpet of flight lounges. I’ve tripped over them, gotten tangled in them, and actually landed upon my flight bag. And as for slumping, honey, I have no equal. Bring on your tired teenagers, fragile grandmas, inebriated partygoers, and whiney adolescents, there’s nobody can beat my slump.

I’ve had bags that roll, bags that flop, and some that seem to develop an inner life force of their own, developing strange, new lumps and bulges that I can’t recognize. When they ask me "Did you pack this bag yourself?" I’m tempted to answer, "Yes, but that was 48 hours and six flights ago. I have no idea what’s happened inside that bag since then. Yes, I know it seems to be moving. Maybe you’d better shoot it."

In the Plane. "Flight attendants will look for signs of illness and take notice of passengers who appear to be moving slowly and in need of help." Forget it. I’m grounded.

I was once on a 12-hour flight to New Zealand where the current guidelines would have kicked the entire passenger list out onto the tarmac. We’d left San Francisco at six in the morning after arriving at midnight, ridden a bronco of turbulence across the Pacific and were turned away from landing in Sydney, Australia, due to storms. If the attendants on that flight would have busied themselves with looking for passengers showing signs of sickness and moving slowly, they’d have broken out the parachutes and tossed us all out the door.

Although I thrill at the thought of travel, the experience is not complimentary to my looks. They’ve stopped serving quality food and I have survived. They’ve decreased the size of the seat, but by means of concentration, yoga, and loose-fitting garments I have managed to wedge the south forty in. But now that they are going to kick me off because I don’t match my photo, I slump in my seat, and move slowly in the cabin, my flying days are over.

My only hope is for Amtrak to extend its lines to the Bahamas.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.