I have never truly got over the excitement of getting on a
plane. My first plane trip was in the late 1970’s, a time in which the average
person got pants-wettingly excited about flying. I was about 4 or 5 years old
and my parents bravely decided to take my younger sister and I on a family
holiday to Florida. These were the days of elegant air travel, and my mother
intended to stick to that directive. To that end, she purchased matching
Colombo-esque trench coats for my 3 year old sister and I. In pigtails, we
dutifully trotted along behind my parents in bell bottom trousers, carrying our
matching sky-blue, faux- leather suitcases. I am sure we looked, at best, like
miniature businessmen on their way to a door-to -door vacuum cleaner
convention. At worst, we were a hair’s breadth away from standing on a street
corner with one side of the jacket open, murmuring under our breath, “Pssst,
hey pal, wanna buy a watch?” A few years
later my sister would plop a fedora on her head, stick a fake cigar in her
mouth and use my coat to go as Humphrey Bogart for Hallowe’en. So I guess you get the picture.
The days of dolling
oneself up for flights however, have long since passed. I now must admit that
comfort, rather than costuming, has become of paramount importance. I try to achieve this pajama level ease
through the magic of the leggings/dress combo. I have no idea what I am going
to do when this eventually becomes an unacceptable fashion choice. As it
stands, I am certainly long past the age of being able to make pigtails and
trench coats look anything but mildly creepy. And let’s not even mention the
bell bottoms.
Since the 70’s, I have practically dedicated my life to
trying to recapture my first experience of elegant plane travel. Through the
years I have developed military level precision when it comes to my flight
experience. Passport, tickets, money was the mantra repeated to me from childhood, with the proviso that those three
things would allow you to reach your destination and purchase anything else
forgotten in the rush to make your flight. For most of my adult life this
mantra has stood me in good stead.
Until I met Scottish partner. His level of preparation for
international flights would put the keenest boy scout to shame, and elegance is
not exactly top of mind. “Tickets, passport, money” was really never going to
cut it in his book. There are boarding passes to be printed, frequent flyer
cards to apply for, and bags that must go through a pre-pack ritual which,
after 4 years together, I am only beginning to understand.
He likes to be the
first person on the plane, I am happy to wait until the last person is on before
I make my way. I have no problem spending an exorbitant 12 Euros on a glass of
wine in a random airport bar. He likes to keep a sober head and an eagle eye on
the possible gate, which he will dash for, leaving me behind with my half-drunk
glass of 12 Euro wine, the second “our” gate appears. It’s hard to be refined
when you are belting back your merlot like a shot of Jagermeister while
searching frantically for your boarding pass in a handbag that has one too many
pockets. In my mind I generally start the journey with perfect lipstick and a
pristinely packed carry on,but the journey inevitably ends with a lost customs
declaration form, a wine stained passport, and deep vein thrombosis from trying
to jam my knee into the seat pocket in front of me while attempting to find an
acceptable sleeping position.
In short, elegance, once the cornerstone of my 1970's air
travel experience, is now out the window. Gone are the days of calm refinement,
first time flyers clapping when the airplane lands, and something resembling a proper
metal knife to cut your reheated chicken or fish with. Instead, I wear the
closest thing to a onesie that a 40 year old woman can get away with in public
and try not to cause my relationship irreparable damage in the departure lounge.
Funny then, after all these years, that I still get that
same thrill from getting on a plane. There will always be magic in the closing
of the doors on one side of the world, and the opening of them in another. The
liftoff, the touchdown and the anticipation in between. Whether I’m watching
Scottish partner eye the departure gates like a collie waiting for his master
outside the front doors of Tesco or handing over an entire paycheck for a glass
of wine in a regional Norwegian airport, there is nothing that makes me
happier. Except maybe an upgrade. Ah,
First Class. It’s definitely elegant up there.
