Bronze common infrequent flyer meets no outlet antelope
Back in California! Nazy and I reflected on our trip to Cyprus and Lebanon.
“It was a different experience for me, Nazy.” I began. “For 15 years, I flew commercial airlines almost every week. I know airports. I know flying. And I have my methods. I know the fastest way through every obstacle. I know which end of the tram is closest to the escalator. I know when walk and when to take the moving footpath. I always get into the airplane first so that I can corral the best overhead compartment space. I researched so that I knew which ‘window’ seats had no windows. I laughed at tourists, wobbly and slow oldsters and families with children. I reveled in my exalted frequent flyer status — aware that my superiority was a result of flawless character, innate charm and well-honed intellect.”
“Wow!” Nazy replied. “You were really full of yourself,” Nazy thought.
“And then..”
“Yes?”
“ … this trip. My platinum status had expired a few years ago. British Air now classified me as Bronze Infrequent Cargo. I was traveling with a child. I didn’t know it was possible to walk so slowly. I had to put my carry-on into an overhead bin that was behind my seat.”
“Well..”
“And on one particularly long segment, I was issued a (gasp!) middle seat boarding pass.”
“But you didn’t sit in the middle seat, I sat there.” Nazy noted.
“But only after I asked you nicely…”
“But only after you had a hissy fit.”
At least Tiger pulled his own weight (and suitcase) as we moved through the airports. Nazy and I have decided that economy class will probably become a thing of the past for us.
In any case, back in California, we found a snootful of exciting things to do. There was, for example…
“… an airshow with World War II airplanes at the Santa Barbara Airport,” I explained. “Tiger will love it.”
“Tiger? I think that you want to see it!” Nazy replied.
“That too!” I agreed.
It wasn’t actually an airshow, it was more like a display of 4 airplanes: a B-17, B-24, B-25 and P-51. We walked (or, more accurately, clambered) through the B-17 and watched the B-25 and P-51 takeoff and fly. Tiger was mostly impressed with the size of the tires.
The three of us walked, eh, crawled through the B-17 Flying Fortress, a bomber that was used by the 8th Army Air Force, Dad’s unit, during WWII. It was amazingly cramped. The only way to get between the front and rear of the airplane was via a six inch wide ‘bridge’ (catwalk) over the bomb bay.
“I bet they didn’t do much socializing on those flights,” Nazy said as she surveyed the ‘bridge’.
“No cabin crew bringing snacks, Nazy,” I replied. “This makes British Air economy class look like a trip on Air Force One,” I thought.
“Imagine them walking over this when all the bombs were right below them. A little turbulence and…”
“Boom!” I thought. “Imagine crew walking across it with a two-year old,” I replied. “Like I’m doing now,” I thought.
The B-24 (where Tiger is posing) was, Dad told me, difficult to fly because the wings iced up very easily.
The very next day there was a car show on downtown State Street. The show featured a lot of cars that were ‘cool’ when I was in high school. (Cool: there were songs written about them) As far as I could tell, the cars were all owned by people who had been in High School at the same time (or earlier) as me. Interestingly, two year olds (like Tiger) also like these antique cars.
It took us a while to conquer jet lag when we got back to Santa Barbara after the wedding. Just as we were recovering, Melika, Tom and Tiger left for a short holiday in Hawaii. That meant Nazy and I had time to..
“Paint!” Nazy exclaimed. “I haven’t posted a painting in weeks.”
“Months.” I replied. “And the result is beautiful.”
“And,” she continued thinking of the outings we’d made in Lebanon, “we should take a drive. We should see something cool in California. How about Bowling Ball Beach?”
“It’s north of San Francisco,” I replied. “Too far!”
“Death Valley?”
“Six hour drive.”
“Antelope Valley? It’s famous for..”
“Antelopes?”
“ … poppy flowers.”
“I believe that the poppies bloom in March,” I replied, “But it is close enough for a drive. Maybe we should see other, eh, stuff.”
“Like what, Dan? The only other choice is the factory outlet mall.”
And so we topped off the petrol tank and headed southeast. We should have..
“… checked Edith’s (the navigation computer) IQ before we left.” I noted as we were directed, once again, to a ‘traffic-avoiding’ detour. “I don’t think that there is sufficient traffic to avoid,”I continued. “Especially here, in the middle of a dust-filled dessert,” I thought. And then..
“Edith says that we’re — eh ‘here’.” Nazy exclaimed.
“Here!?” I replied. “Do you see that sign? It says: ‘NO OUTLET’. “
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that a trip to the Outlet Mall might have been a better way to spend the day.”
“It was a different experience for me, Nazy.” I began. “For 15 years, I flew commercial airlines almost every week. I know airports. I know flying. And I have my methods. I know the fastest way through every obstacle. I know which end of the tram is closest to the escalator. I know when walk and when to take the moving footpath. I always get into the airplane first so that I can corral the best overhead compartment space. I researched so that I knew which ‘window’ seats had no windows. I laughed at tourists, wobbly and slow oldsters and families with children. I reveled in my exalted frequent flyer status — aware that my superiority was a result of flawless character, innate charm and well-honed intellect.”
“Wow!” Nazy replied. “You were really full of yourself,” Nazy thought.
“And then..”
“Yes?”
“ … this trip. My platinum status had expired a few years ago. British Air now classified me as Bronze Infrequent Cargo. I was traveling with a child. I didn’t know it was possible to walk so slowly. I had to put my carry-on into an overhead bin that was behind my seat.”
“Well..”
“And on one particularly long segment, I was issued a (gasp!) middle seat boarding pass.”
“But you didn’t sit in the middle seat, I sat there.” Nazy noted.
“But only after I asked you nicely…”
“But only after you had a hissy fit.”
At least Tiger pulled his own weight (and suitcase) as we moved through the airports. Nazy and I have decided that economy class will probably become a thing of the past for us.
In any case, back in California, we found a snootful of exciting things to do. There was, for example…
“… an airshow with World War II airplanes at the Santa Barbara Airport,” I explained. “Tiger will love it.”
“Tiger? I think that you want to see it!” Nazy replied.
“That too!” I agreed.
It wasn’t actually an airshow, it was more like a display of 4 airplanes: a B-17, B-24, B-25 and P-51. We walked (or, more accurately, clambered) through the B-17 and watched the B-25 and P-51 takeoff and fly. Tiger was mostly impressed with the size of the tires.
The three of us walked, eh, crawled through the B-17 Flying Fortress, a bomber that was used by the 8th Army Air Force, Dad’s unit, during WWII. It was amazingly cramped. The only way to get between the front and rear of the airplane was via a six inch wide ‘bridge’ (catwalk) over the bomb bay.
“I bet they didn’t do much socializing on those flights,” Nazy said as she surveyed the ‘bridge’.
“No cabin crew bringing snacks, Nazy,” I replied. “This makes British Air economy class look like a trip on Air Force One,” I thought.
“Imagine them walking over this when all the bombs were right below them. A little turbulence and…”
“Boom!” I thought. “Imagine crew walking across it with a two-year old,” I replied. “Like I’m doing now,” I thought.
The B-24 (where Tiger is posing) was, Dad told me, difficult to fly because the wings iced up very easily.
The very next day there was a car show on downtown State Street. The show featured a lot of cars that were ‘cool’ when I was in high school. (Cool: there were songs written about them) As far as I could tell, the cars were all owned by people who had been in High School at the same time (or earlier) as me. Interestingly, two year olds (like Tiger) also like these antique cars.
It took us a while to conquer jet lag when we got back to Santa Barbara after the wedding. Just as we were recovering, Melika, Tom and Tiger left for a short holiday in Hawaii. That meant Nazy and I had time to..
“Paint!” Nazy exclaimed. “I haven’t posted a painting in weeks.”
“Months.” I replied. “And the result is beautiful.”
“And,” she continued thinking of the outings we’d made in Lebanon, “we should take a drive. We should see something cool in California. How about Bowling Ball Beach?”
“It’s north of San Francisco,” I replied. “Too far!”
“Death Valley?”
“Six hour drive.”
“Antelope Valley? It’s famous for..”
“Antelopes?”
“ … poppy flowers.”
“I believe that the poppies bloom in March,” I replied, “But it is close enough for a drive. Maybe we should see other, eh, stuff.”
“Like what, Dan? The only other choice is the factory outlet mall.”
And so we topped off the petrol tank and headed southeast. We should have..
“… checked Edith’s (the navigation computer) IQ before we left.” I noted as we were directed, once again, to a ‘traffic-avoiding’ detour. “I don’t think that there is sufficient traffic to avoid,”I continued. “Especially here, in the middle of a dust-filled dessert,” I thought. And then..
“Edith says that we’re — eh ‘here’.” Nazy exclaimed.
“Here!?” I replied. “Do you see that sign? It says: ‘NO OUTLET’. “
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that a trip to the Outlet Mall might have been a better way to spend the day.”
For last week's letter, click here
Nazy in Antelope Valley
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