The Flight 'Home' (?): Mexico

I can’t say I was thrilled about heading back over the border.  Granted, the weather is wonderful, but so many other things make it a real drag.  The main thing was that the online check in for my flight showed that the flight is almost full.  This means the chances for scamming an extra leg room seat for free are pretty much non-existent.  Already being uptight about being cramped is the lumbering factor about my flying anxiety.  Of course, this means the odds are pretty good that someone will be sitting next to me, and if so, probably means rubbing elbows.  Personally, I don’t like touching strangers, especially in airplanes.

I take my time getting to the airport.  I buy a few magazines to read on the way back.  I pass up the latest ‘Jamie’ magazine thinking I could find it in the airport.  It didn’t happen.  This brings up a point that bothers me about international travel; the domestic newsstands in the airports suck.  You can get sports mags, women’s mags and your Playboys and ‘nicer’ men’s magazines.  If you want something more specialized or enjoyable, you are pretty much at a loss.  Yes, there are a few fashion magazines, a few photography and computing ones, but nothing too in depth.  Compared to newsstands in Europe, ours suck.

I am faced with alone time in the airport.  Damon asks if he should come in and sit.  I would love the company, but it really isn’t worth it.  He drops me off, we say goodbye next to his car.  I’ll miss him.  I grab my bag with wheels and head into the airport a bit begrudgingly.

Check in moves pretty easily.  There is a short line for scanning, and I wonder if we still have to take our shoes off.  They don’t make you take your shoes off in Mexico, but here they do.  As I am taking my shoes off  I see a sign of ‘forbidden’ items.  I realize that my bag has an unfavorable item and wonder if I should say something or not.  I stand in my socks and watch the screen over the guard’s shoulder and look at the x-ray of my bag.  He doesn’t seem to care, so I don’t.  I grab my goods and quickly put my shoes on.  No sense in touring the airport, I head straight to the gate where I will be boarding.  It is pretty empty.  I put my bags down and walk up to the counter to do the second check-in.  I am told that I will have to come back after the staff changes in about 15 minutes.  I sit down and do a preliminary scan over my magazine to see what I want to read in flight. 

After glancing over my shoulder and seeing the staff had changed, I get up and go do my second check in.  I walk back to my seat and pull out my book.  I have to finish the second half of Animal Farm before I get back to Mexico City.  This is my simple goal.  I look at the people who have come and sat at the same gate.  They look ok, no one looks dodgy, at least not yet.  I open the book and start reading.  An announcement comes on telling us that the flight is running late, and should be here in 15 or 20 minutes.  I have a brief bout of anxiety, then realize there is nothing I can do.  A few minutes later, another announcement comes on and tells the people at the next gate, that their flight to San Francisco is delayed for 4 hours. What a drag.  I am thankful that I am not sitting and waiting, ratcheting up uncontrollable anxiety for four hours.  My 15 to 20 minute wait seems like peanuts compared to those poor chumps.

An older sits next to me.  He puts his bags down and I look up and smile.  He just stares blankly at me. I am a bit perplexed, but put my eyes back down towards my book and carry on.  I notice he is moving around and I cast a quick glance at him.  He is unwrapping his lunch and eating a sandwich.  He then eats a donut and something else I could not take note of.  Maybe he’ll be happier with food in his gut.  I hear him make a phone call.  He’s talking to his wife.  He tells her of the delay and how he already misses her.  I find that quite touching.  Then he says something which catches me off guard, “Chili dog?” he asks his wife on the phone, “How many?”  I am curios where this is going.  I catch his end of the conversation as he discusses chili dogs with his wife, “ Ok.  I wouldn’t have done that, but if you wanted them.”  “I am sure I will hear your complaints later”  Obviously, his wife had chili dogs while he ate a sandwich and a donut in an airport.

The waiting area starts to fill up.  I hear a husky, barking voice.  It sounds German.  I scan the seats and see an older Jewish man with a big salt and pepper beard.  He’s on his phone, barking down the line.  I catch bits and pieces of what he is saying, part in Yiddish and part in Spanish.  He is talking louder than anyone else in the waiting area.

The plane we were waiting for has come in and they are de-boarding.  After all the passengers have left, the pilots come off.  They smile and greet the guys who will be flying me back.  I hear one of the crew that just arrived tell the other pilots, “What a machine.  She handles like a dream, you’ll love it” This makes me feel a bit more comfortable.

There are people standing all around now.  There are no seats in the waiting area.  It is going to be a full flight.  Quick scan again.  No one looks like Taliban sympathizers and no disgruntled south East Asian types. Good.  Now I only have to worry about hair pins and orange juice or whatever the latest threats are.  Full flight, I rest assured that if a bozo starts something, it will be gangland warfare up in the air.  Plenty of other dudes and jock types to wrestle down the crazed lunatic if he should try his hand at being a martyr…or hero. 

They call passengers to board.  First class first, then those with other privileges.  They call the last 4 rows and about ¼ of the waiting area get up.  The business man next to me says something, “They called the last four rows of the plane and at least 40 people get up” he says. “You don’t have to be genius to figure that one out.  Four rows.  Three seats in each row. 24 people” I look at the crowd and smile.  I shrug my shoulders and tell him I agree.

I happily get up when they call the next batch of rows.  I follow the line of people down the gangway and it stalls a good way out of the plane.  Looks like first class is still boarding, and we stand in the hallway waiting.  After the big shots get seated, things flow pretty quickly.  As I board I take a look at the crew.  They look ok.  One of the pilots are standing in the doorway, he smiles and says hello.  I waddle my way down to the back end of the plane.  I see an empty overhead compartment and heave my bag up into its nesting place.  I grab my seat and sit down.  Like a robot, I set my bag in the middle seat next to me.  I continue reading as the plane fills up.  It will take a while with all those people.  “Eh-scuse me” says a voice.  I look up and a young Mexican kid with a backpack is standing beside me.  I smile and stand so he can get in.  He puts his bag between us too, and sits down and stares out the window.  I notice he’s rubbing his hands together, then on his jeans, like he is nervous.  I am fine with this arrangement.  The bags will hopefully deter anyone else form sitting.  As they have been calling blocks of rows, it looks as if there will not be anyone joining us…unless the idiot is late, very late.  Thankfully, the pilot says we’ve boarded and will be leaving shortly.  No one is lumbering down the aisle, so I know I can stretch out and leave my bag beside me.  I will not be rubbing shoulders with strangers today.

As we fly, I look at the kid next to me.  He stares out the window the whole time.  I wonder if he is nervous.  He’s got an eyebrow pierced.  I think it looks stupid, but he looks ok.  I am almost finished with Animal Farm.  The small delay and just waiting has allowed me to read up.  I am guessing I will be done by the time the snack cart comes around.  I do.  I am happy, because after I eat, I can read my magazine. 

A flight attendant leans in and asks if I am a US citizen.  I answer yes.  He asks again, “Where are you from?”  I answer him “American.”  He thinks he’s funny and asks, “Yes?  Which part, north or south?”  He pulls out obligatory immigration card and hands it to me.  I smile and say thanks.  “Do you have a pen I can use?”  I ask as I look at his breast pocket and the extra pen waiting there.  He pats his chest, glances down and looks at me, “I’m sorry, I don’t have another pen”.  He’s a liar.  I know he knows that I saw him in that split second when he realized he had a spare in his pocket.  Still, I smile and say ok.

The snack guys ask if I want a sandwich.  I say ok.  It comes on a bun that looks like a hot dog bun.  It is turkey.  There is a pack of mayonnaise, a small cool bag of carrots and a tiny bag of M&Ms.  I brought my own cheese on a roll.  I pull eat out and eat it with the cool, wet baby carrots.  I put the M&Ms into my bag for a snack later.  I don’t touch my sandwich; it is still wrapped in the paper it came in.  The Mexican kid next to me has eaten his.  I wonder if I should ask him if he wants mine, but think it may be considered bad form.  He may think I am a freak. Is it rude to offer your airline food to the people next to you?   When the guy comes to pick up trash, he dumps my untouched turkey roll into the bin.

I read my magazine (Mojo) and am excited about the big Clash article in it.  It focuses on the making of Sandinista.  I read some album reviews and shorter stories as an appetizer.  I see the kid next to me digging in his backpack. I feel odd about this, but I reach over and tap him on the shoulder.  He looks at me and I make the familiar motion of my hand, like I am writing in mid air, “Do you have a pen I can use?”  He smiles and puts his hand in his bag and hands me a pen.  I smile back and say “Gracias”…and feel like an idiot.  I don’t even know how to ask for a pen in Spanish.  When I finish filling out my card, I hand it back and he does his card.  I glance over a few minutes later to snoop his info.  Yep, he’s Mexican.  He’s 23…that is all I got.

The flight went quickly.  The pilot says we will be landing very soon, that we have already started our approach.  I decide to make a pee stop because who knows what lies ahead in immigration.  I watch to see when the bathrooms are vacant.  It never happens, there are always at least two women standing there.  I go and stand behind one of the women and wait my turn.  I am standing there a while; the women inside the two toilets never leave.  I hear each one banging around inside and the toilets flushing…but they never come out.  The lady behind me gets curious and asks me, pointing at both doors, “Is someone in both?  Are people in both toilets?”  I raise my eyebrows and shake my head yes.  She peers around me to see if I am lying, then she looks at me somewhat perturbed.

I hate peeing on planes.  The cabin is so small.  I am afraid to touch anything.  I have to stand stooped over and if any turbulence comes along…well, you know what happens.  I do my thing, wash my hands and turn to the door. Great.  I have to grab the latch to open it.  Who knows what those long time ladies were doing in here. I grimace and pull the lever and push open the door.  As I walk passed the line of people waiting to pee, I wipe my hand son my jeans.

The pilot says to buckle up, there is a bit of turbulence as we come in to land.  It is a little bumpy, but not too bad.  I sit and look at the Mexico City sprawl as we descend through the smog and upon the city.  We wobble form side to side.  I see the airport now, and we still keep bobbing form side to side.  Then, it seems, we veer form left to right.  What is up with this dude?  We are coming in fast.  I see the ground and the grass and this guy is acting like someone stole his training wheels.  I thought this thing handled like a dream, which is what the other pilot said.  We keep wobbling and bobbing and he drops down like a stone.  It was not a pleasant landing.  A few women shriek at the pilots ‘finesse’. 

The pilot comes on and tells us the time, the temperature and welcomes us to Mexico City.  I miss Texas already, I hated to leave it.  Now, I am waiting to deplane and work my way back into life in my new ‘home’.  I try to be positive.  There is plenty of good food, great weather.  The dogs are at home and Tonya is waiting on me.  Maybe, we’ll have a great dinner tonight!  I am here, in one piece.  Now I head off to face customs and immigration.  Let’s do this!

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