Seat J17 : The Implements of Mass Destruction
It was a cool desert day at the Amman Queen Alia International Airport. I had a revelation while travelling on Royal Jordanian Airlines this past Christmas holiday. First, I really like airline food. Not the stuff they feed you on third world airlines like Jazeera or Air Canada, this was actually quite gourmet.
Going through security in any airport is always an adventure of sorts what with all the new threats to public safety. We now have to be concerned about gels, shoes, watches, belts, nail files and the like. I once saw a display, in a small airport in Regina, showing many of the samples of items that could no longer be taken on a plane. Razor blades, sharpened screw drivers and six inch nails were in this display and are now all band substances. “Honey did you pack the screw driver and the nails?” The sacrifices we must make.
Times have truly changed in the airline industry, at one time passengers were allowed to smoke on flights and people made love in the bathrooms as part of the so called “Mile High Club” Oh wait, people still do that which may explain some of the turbulences we all experience on flights and the scar on my left calve about half way up, but that is another story. I got distracted back to security in airports.
I do get a little nervous in airports such as the one in Aswan, Egypt where sleepy looking soldiers in baggy black uniforms walk around carrying ancient looking automatic rifles casually slung over their shoulders, with curved ammo clips and bashed up wooden stocks. There I am passing through a security check with my belt off and my shoes in my hand feeling perhaps a tad vulnerable. I can’t run because my pants are about to fall off. I can almost envision a spray of automatic rifle fire as one of those sleepy armed airport guards snaps out of REM sleep and accidently discharges his weapon. Everyone was having a good time until Nasser woke up!
Approaching the Aswan airport is really like entering a military base for the simple reason it is one. I would estimate about seven jets, or a third of the entire Egyptian air force is stationed, and somewhat hidden from the general public, in large sand covered bunkers at the Aswan International Airport. Any Israeli tourist travelling under cover as say a middle aged teacher from Kuwait could confirm my observations. This combination of military presence and domestic commerce makes for an unusual juxtaposition of land uses and economies. I don’t mind so much paying for parking at an airport, but my driver actually had to pay the guards something to gain entry to the airport. In turn I had to pay my driver a little something for getting me to the airport. I think in this case I am on the bottom of the economic food chain.
These same guards while located in tourist’s spots, such as the Columns at Karnack or at the Pyramids, are given the euphemistic title of “Tourist Police.” When I first read that title over the entrance to a guard house I wondered if they were there to harass me or protect me. The answer is a little bit of both. Often their little scam is to offer to show you the best angle from which to view a particular relic. They even offer to take your picture and with little puppy dog smiles and expression give the little thumb index rub like a puppy lying on its back in anticipation of a belly rub. I just didn’t have the heart to say no to a cute little Egyptian soldier with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder with the safety catch off.
Despite my keen awareness concerning the carrying of gels, liquids and other miscellaneous banned substances I usually manage to screw up somehow. I don’t know how many times I have bought a bottle of water and/or coffee immediately prior to going through airport security only to have to either drink it really fast, dump it out, or give it up to security. I am no doubt a slow learner. Going trough security in Cairo on our way to Sharm el Sheik on the Red Sea I was guilty of caring (again) a bottle of water, four small bottles of perfume from the souks of Cairo and a large quantity of “spices” wrapped in newspaper that, with the exception of the Saffron and Paprika, all looked suspiciously like something else found legally on the streets of Amsterdam.
Naturally, the astute, well trained and highly observant customs and immigration official drew me to his side and pointed to the frozen picture on his computer screen showing my array of contraband items. Busted. I could apologize. I could run, but he still had my belt and shoes. The customs official drew me closer and because I was slow on the take (pun intended) he almost whispered in my ear with a twinkle in his eye, “Pay me something.” I pulled out a 100 pound note and gave it to him slow and easy. I wished him a wonderful day and slowly backed away while trying desperately to put my belt on, retrieve my backpack and hopping on one foot in an almost vain attempt to get my shoe back on. The speech bubble above the guard’s head seemed to say, “Step away son and no one will get hurt.”
Once I had breezed through security and still had my perfumes, “spices” and such on my person and out of sheer nervousness, I desperately needed to seek out a washroom. People only laugh when we etiquette prone Canadians ask for a washroom ot a restroom. Like we really need to bathe or sleep. Most signs just say toilet or WC.
As is the case in many European salle de bains (grade 9 French) be prepared to pay for the services you are about to receive and don’t take that the wrong way. I may be a pampered North American but I really do not need and often resent someone following me into the washroom to tear of the toilet tissue for me, turn on and off the water tap and then provide me with a tiny scrap of paper towel to dry my hands when the whole process is finished. It makes me feel like I am three years old. Of course a tip is required at the moment of completion. It is then that I made the chilling realization that the smallest bill I had, I had just generously given to the customs official as a bribe in my bid to support corruption in this desert country. I had no small bills left to pay the still smiling faced attendant who strategically managed to stand between me and the exit. I began to panic, but managed to hold my calm as I weighed my options.
I could run because I finally did have my belt and shoes on. I could hide, but in the end I opted to pay the attendant what probably amounted to a full weeks wage for the freedom of leaving the washroom. I was fully cognizant of the fact that just outside the door and within shouting range was another armed guard; probably the washroom attendant’s cousin. I really had no choice but to pay the toilet attendant. I was nervous and had a great urge to pee again.
Waiting at the gate and killing large quantities of time in an airport form an important skill set for any cosmopolitan traveler. Often flights are delayed. Once I had read, or maybe heard an urban myth about a flight arriving early, but I’m sure it was exactly that, a myth. On this day and for this flight Cheryl and I were to wait at gate 16 for a flight scheduled to leave in about another two hours. We each knew the drill and fumbled through our respective purse and backpack to pull out our novels. Instead of reading I love to watch people. They come in so many fascinating shapes and sizes, take the Russians for example.
My conclusions about Russian tourists are not positive. In fact why don’t you just skip to the next paragraph so no one takes offence, especially if you happen to be Russian. I suppose there is lots of new wealth in this former Soviet Republic and I theorize that like many people with new wealth-noveau riche-they don’t know how to act, how to dress or, generally for that matter to be in public in a civil way. Many of them are loud brash and over bearing. Around the hotel pool I was grossed out by a rather rotund Russian man spitting into the water, loudly and constantly. I didn’t go into the water that day.
At the airport I watched several young Russian couples as they waited for their flight back to the mother country. Many of the women have big hair reminiscent of the 50’s and 60’s, several of the guys were wearing muscle shirts, tattoos seem to be very popular, but that’s in our culture too. There, the lady four rows up, third from the left. I noticed her when I took a stroll to the washroom (see above paragraph). She was wearing a mesh and very see through type skirt with abundantly visible black panties underneath. I thought how sheik in a cheap vulgar sort of way, great if you happen to be a hooker. My ideal trophy wife looks more like Pamela Anderson, wait, no; she looks like a hooker too.
Finally, on the plane, I always like sitting next to the window during take off in case anything goes wrong during those critical ten seconds of lift off. I would be one of the first to know if something was going tragically wrong with the plane and yet be totally helpless to do a single thing about it. Knowledge is power none the less, even if temporary. I enjoy the moment, and often try to predict, that precise instant of lift off as the massive spinning wheels are airborne and are soon retracted safely into the under belly of the jet.
Shortly after take-off and with great efficiency out come the attendants with their food trolleys. As I said I like airline food. I was in awe at the way the caterer was able to package and fit onto such a small tray all of the beverages, serving dishes and utensils. I marveled even more when I untied my napkin containing a metal fork, knife and spoon. I idly recalled that recently some group somewhere had managed to hijack a plane or two using only cardboard cutters and then flew the plane with reckless abandon into the side of a tall building and here I sat with such powerful implements of mass destruction in my hand. I trembled with power as I ate my curried chicken and fruit cocktail deep in thought.
As a Geographer, with almost a total lack of spatial sense, I revel at the sight of the vistas and landscapes below me and often take numerous photographs at take off only to notice that I am likely the only guy with a camera. I then turn my attention to the in flight magazine (rip out a favourite article for later reference), read the card with the emergency exit (deplaning) instructions, remove the life jacket under the seat and inflate it, just to make sure it is actually there and in working order, and then start pressing the buttons on the seat handle, adjusting the knobs controlling the air and lights and of course pressing the button to draw the attention of the flight attendants. I don’t recline my seat until the person behind me has his meal tray or beverage on his tray. Flying is such child’s play.
I like listening to the in flight safety instructions and try to mimic and mime the same actions as the flight attendants as they bring the bright yellow oxygen mask over their face and demonstrate where the emergency lighting is and eureka show me how to do up my seat belt. On Middle Eastern airlines you have the added bonus of having an in flight pre-flight prayer in Arabic. I asked the Arab/Islamic looking couple next to me what the prayer meant and in perfect English they told me they were Christian. I’m still working on the translation. I think they were still a little ticked at me just because my inflated life jacket had spilt their drinks. Some people are so touchy about things and how Christian is that I ask?
Actually my favourite seat is the one midway along the fuselage where the emergency exit door is located. Just before take off a flight attendant in a conspiratorial tone asks whoever is sitting next to the emergency door if they feel capable of removing the door in an emergency situation.
I have always harboured the fantasy of, on cue after being asked that same question, actually grabbing the door handles firmly and rotating them precisely at 90 degrees in a counter clockwise fashion and then forcefully pushing the door out toward the wing in one fluid motion while rotating it and thrusting it out on to the runaway below letting it bounce at least once somewhere along the wing.
Deep down I know that would be wrong, but imagine what a laugh all the passengers would get, especially those harried business men in first class on tight schedules as the air marshal takes time to remove me from the flight and the maintenance team retrieves, repairs and replaces the door as everyone deplanes because of the damaged wing. It’s just a fantasy. I would never do that because I would be too busy strategizing over what to do with all that metal cutlery. That was my revelation.
Would you please return your seat to the upright position and fasten your seatbelts…
marty
It was a cool desert day at the Amman Queen Alia International Airport. I had a revelation while travelling on Royal Jordanian Airlines this past Christmas holiday. First, I really like airline food. Not the stuff they feed you on third world airlines like Jazeera or Air Canada, this was actually quite gourmet.
Going through security in any airport is always an adventure of sorts what with all the new threats to public safety. We now have to be concerned about gels, shoes, watches, belts, nail files and the like. I once saw a display, in a small airport in Regina, showing many of the samples of items that could no longer be taken on a plane. Razor blades, sharpened screw drivers and six inch nails were in this display and are now all band substances. “Honey did you pack the screw driver and the nails?” The sacrifices we must make.
Times have truly changed in the airline industry, at one time passengers were allowed to smoke on flights and people made love in the bathrooms as part of the so called “Mile High Club” Oh wait, people still do that which may explain some of the turbulences we all experience on flights and the scar on my left calve about half way up, but that is another story. I got distracted back to security in airports.
I do get a little nervous in airports such as the one in Aswan, Egypt where sleepy looking soldiers in baggy black uniforms walk around carrying ancient looking automatic rifles casually slung over their shoulders, with curved ammo clips and bashed up wooden stocks. There I am passing through a security check with my belt off and my shoes in my hand feeling perhaps a tad vulnerable. I can’t run because my pants are about to fall off. I can almost envision a spray of automatic rifle fire as one of those sleepy armed airport guards snaps out of REM sleep and accidently discharges his weapon. Everyone was having a good time until Nasser woke up!
Approaching the Aswan airport is really like entering a military base for the simple reason it is one. I would estimate about seven jets, or a third of the entire Egyptian air force is stationed, and somewhat hidden from the general public, in large sand covered bunkers at the Aswan International Airport. Any Israeli tourist travelling under cover as say a middle aged teacher from Kuwait could confirm my observations. This combination of military presence and domestic commerce makes for an unusual juxtaposition of land uses and economies. I don’t mind so much paying for parking at an airport, but my driver actually had to pay the guards something to gain entry to the airport. In turn I had to pay my driver a little something for getting me to the airport. I think in this case I am on the bottom of the economic food chain.
These same guards while located in tourist’s spots, such as the Columns at Karnack or at the Pyramids, are given the euphemistic title of “Tourist Police.” When I first read that title over the entrance to a guard house I wondered if they were there to harass me or protect me. The answer is a little bit of both. Often their little scam is to offer to show you the best angle from which to view a particular relic. They even offer to take your picture and with little puppy dog smiles and expression give the little thumb index rub like a puppy lying on its back in anticipation of a belly rub. I just didn’t have the heart to say no to a cute little Egyptian soldier with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder with the safety catch off.
Despite my keen awareness concerning the carrying of gels, liquids and other miscellaneous banned substances I usually manage to screw up somehow. I don’t know how many times I have bought a bottle of water and/or coffee immediately prior to going through airport security only to have to either drink it really fast, dump it out, or give it up to security. I am no doubt a slow learner. Going trough security in Cairo on our way to Sharm el Sheik on the Red Sea I was guilty of caring (again) a bottle of water, four small bottles of perfume from the souks of Cairo and a large quantity of “spices” wrapped in newspaper that, with the exception of the Saffron and Paprika, all looked suspiciously like something else found legally on the streets of Amsterdam.
Naturally, the astute, well trained and highly observant customs and immigration official drew me to his side and pointed to the frozen picture on his computer screen showing my array of contraband items. Busted. I could apologize. I could run, but he still had my belt and shoes. The customs official drew me closer and because I was slow on the take (pun intended) he almost whispered in my ear with a twinkle in his eye, “Pay me something.” I pulled out a 100 pound note and gave it to him slow and easy. I wished him a wonderful day and slowly backed away while trying desperately to put my belt on, retrieve my backpack and hopping on one foot in an almost vain attempt to get my shoe back on. The speech bubble above the guard’s head seemed to say, “Step away son and no one will get hurt.”
Once I had breezed through security and still had my perfumes, “spices” and such on my person and out of sheer nervousness, I desperately needed to seek out a washroom. People only laugh when we etiquette prone Canadians ask for a washroom ot a restroom. Like we really need to bathe or sleep. Most signs just say toilet or WC.
As is the case in many European salle de bains (grade 9 French) be prepared to pay for the services you are about to receive and don’t take that the wrong way. I may be a pampered North American but I really do not need and often resent someone following me into the washroom to tear of the toilet tissue for me, turn on and off the water tap and then provide me with a tiny scrap of paper towel to dry my hands when the whole process is finished. It makes me feel like I am three years old. Of course a tip is required at the moment of completion. It is then that I made the chilling realization that the smallest bill I had, I had just generously given to the customs official as a bribe in my bid to support corruption in this desert country. I had no small bills left to pay the still smiling faced attendant who strategically managed to stand between me and the exit. I began to panic, but managed to hold my calm as I weighed my options.
I could run because I finally did have my belt and shoes on. I could hide, but in the end I opted to pay the attendant what probably amounted to a full weeks wage for the freedom of leaving the washroom. I was fully cognizant of the fact that just outside the door and within shouting range was another armed guard; probably the washroom attendant’s cousin. I really had no choice but to pay the toilet attendant. I was nervous and had a great urge to pee again.
Waiting at the gate and killing large quantities of time in an airport form an important skill set for any cosmopolitan traveler. Often flights are delayed. Once I had read, or maybe heard an urban myth about a flight arriving early, but I’m sure it was exactly that, a myth. On this day and for this flight Cheryl and I were to wait at gate 16 for a flight scheduled to leave in about another two hours. We each knew the drill and fumbled through our respective purse and backpack to pull out our novels. Instead of reading I love to watch people. They come in so many fascinating shapes and sizes, take the Russians for example.
My conclusions about Russian tourists are not positive. In fact why don’t you just skip to the next paragraph so no one takes offence, especially if you happen to be Russian. I suppose there is lots of new wealth in this former Soviet Republic and I theorize that like many people with new wealth-noveau riche-they don’t know how to act, how to dress or, generally for that matter to be in public in a civil way. Many of them are loud brash and over bearing. Around the hotel pool I was grossed out by a rather rotund Russian man spitting into the water, loudly and constantly. I didn’t go into the water that day.
At the airport I watched several young Russian couples as they waited for their flight back to the mother country. Many of the women have big hair reminiscent of the 50’s and 60’s, several of the guys were wearing muscle shirts, tattoos seem to be very popular, but that’s in our culture too. There, the lady four rows up, third from the left. I noticed her when I took a stroll to the washroom (see above paragraph). She was wearing a mesh and very see through type skirt with abundantly visible black panties underneath. I thought how sheik in a cheap vulgar sort of way, great if you happen to be a hooker. My ideal trophy wife looks more like Pamela Anderson, wait, no; she looks like a hooker too.
Finally, on the plane, I always like sitting next to the window during take off in case anything goes wrong during those critical ten seconds of lift off. I would be one of the first to know if something was going tragically wrong with the plane and yet be totally helpless to do a single thing about it. Knowledge is power none the less, even if temporary. I enjoy the moment, and often try to predict, that precise instant of lift off as the massive spinning wheels are airborne and are soon retracted safely into the under belly of the jet.
Shortly after take-off and with great efficiency out come the attendants with their food trolleys. As I said I like airline food. I was in awe at the way the caterer was able to package and fit onto such a small tray all of the beverages, serving dishes and utensils. I marveled even more when I untied my napkin containing a metal fork, knife and spoon. I idly recalled that recently some group somewhere had managed to hijack a plane or two using only cardboard cutters and then flew the plane with reckless abandon into the side of a tall building and here I sat with such powerful implements of mass destruction in my hand. I trembled with power as I ate my curried chicken and fruit cocktail deep in thought.
As a Geographer, with almost a total lack of spatial sense, I revel at the sight of the vistas and landscapes below me and often take numerous photographs at take off only to notice that I am likely the only guy with a camera. I then turn my attention to the in flight magazine (rip out a favourite article for later reference), read the card with the emergency exit (deplaning) instructions, remove the life jacket under the seat and inflate it, just to make sure it is actually there and in working order, and then start pressing the buttons on the seat handle, adjusting the knobs controlling the air and lights and of course pressing the button to draw the attention of the flight attendants. I don’t recline my seat until the person behind me has his meal tray or beverage on his tray. Flying is such child’s play.
I like listening to the in flight safety instructions and try to mimic and mime the same actions as the flight attendants as they bring the bright yellow oxygen mask over their face and demonstrate where the emergency lighting is and eureka show me how to do up my seat belt. On Middle Eastern airlines you have the added bonus of having an in flight pre-flight prayer in Arabic. I asked the Arab/Islamic looking couple next to me what the prayer meant and in perfect English they told me they were Christian. I’m still working on the translation. I think they were still a little ticked at me just because my inflated life jacket had spilt their drinks. Some people are so touchy about things and how Christian is that I ask?
Actually my favourite seat is the one midway along the fuselage where the emergency exit door is located. Just before take off a flight attendant in a conspiratorial tone asks whoever is sitting next to the emergency door if they feel capable of removing the door in an emergency situation.
I have always harboured the fantasy of, on cue after being asked that same question, actually grabbing the door handles firmly and rotating them precisely at 90 degrees in a counter clockwise fashion and then forcefully pushing the door out toward the wing in one fluid motion while rotating it and thrusting it out on to the runaway below letting it bounce at least once somewhere along the wing.
Deep down I know that would be wrong, but imagine what a laugh all the passengers would get, especially those harried business men in first class on tight schedules as the air marshal takes time to remove me from the flight and the maintenance team retrieves, repairs and replaces the door as everyone deplanes because of the damaged wing. It’s just a fantasy. I would never do that because I would be too busy strategizing over what to do with all that metal cutlery. That was my revelation.
Would you please return your seat to the upright position and fasten your seatbelts…
marty
1 comment:
Hey, I'm writing from Portland OR as your sister Marlene, with whom I joyously worked in Bangladesh, gave me your blog site. Thanks for the great entertainment! Marlene mentioned the tsunami poem and I went right to it. Sitting here now with tears ...I know you are known as a FUNNY guy (which of course is continually proved by your essays) and am pleased to find you're also a very sensitive poet. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.
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