Every once in a while I take a journey some place that
requires me to purchase a ticket and fly the skies with WestJet (I try to avoid
Air Canada because, frankly, they just piss me off). I actually enjoy flying for the most part;
there is something very exciting about the sound of that big engine as the
silver winged agent of transportation shakes and rattles down the runway and
you are pushed back against your seat as it lifts off and gains altitude. I like looking out the window at puffy
clouds, snowy mountain tops, prairie wheat fields and dark depths of ocean and
I particularly love the goings on of the people right from the time they enter
the waiting room at the gate until we reach our final destination (this
includes the flight crew by the way).
Most airports quite effectively indicate, with very large
signage, where to go to find your gate and there are numerous signs that list
the departure and arrival times of the numerous flights that day. Inevitably
there is at least one person who is late.. I often wonder what makes them
late? Were they hung up in traffic, did
their car die on the roadside, did they have trouble finding their passport or
were they so intent on standing in that boring long line up at Starbucks for
their Chestnut Praline Latte that they failed to hear their name being repeated
over and over on the static ridden intercom???
“WestJet is paging Mr. Better Late Than Never, please report to gate A15
for IMMEDIATE departure of your airplane to Puerto Vallarta”. Who the hell is
late for a flight to Mexico when you are trying to escape the miserable snow
and cold of a Canadian winter??? If I
was going somewhere like that I’d be in the departure lounge long before my
take off time let me tell you.
Oh yes, or the flight is delayed (in great big letters on
the sign at the gate), departure lounge is full and some ding-a-ling in
loafers, yacking on his cellphone is trotting at breakneck speed, waving his
passport and loudly addressing the WestJet agent “I’m on that plane to Prince George” and
actually attempts to run right past her before she sticks out her hand and
tells him it hasn’t even boarded yet. Oh
some folks just don’t get it now do they?
Then there is the woman wearing her pyjama bottoms (please someone
promise me that the day I wear pyjamas in public you will commit me to an
asylum!) who saunters up to the counter with her boarding pass in hand and
reads the sign and then asks the gate crew if this is the right gate for her
flight to Calgary. God love the agent
who had the balls to ask her what it said on her boarding pass and what it said
on the sign and then asked her if there was something about either one she
didn’t quite get. I nearly spewed my dark roast Timmies out on that one (I
didn’t get in the Starbucks line up in case I might be late for my flight).
Boarding is called; according to pre-boarding folks, then
according to zones 1-4 which is on your boarding pass. Apparently a fair number
of people can’t count to four because that caused some confusion and then do
you not think they would have their boarding passes and their ID out PRIOR to
getting to the counter?? Oh no, for some it seems to be a total surprise (even
though we had been reminded at least twice before lining up) that this would
greatly help speed up the boarding process but still there was fumbling in
pockets, purses and carry-on bags to find the right documents. You just want to walk up and smack them on
the forehead but I didn’t think they would let me on the plane if I did that so
I just did it inside my head!
Now we are inside the plane. Here again, the ability to
count and recognize letters of the English alphabet come in very handy if you
are to find your correct seat. Imagine finding out that row 18 seat A is not
the same as row 20 seat F?? Once arriving at their correct seat now comes the
awkward choreography of stuffing that bulky carry on bag that I swear you stuck
your child in so you didn’t have to pay for a ticket, into the overhead bin. No
sir, that will not fit. I don’t care how many times you poke it, shove it, push
on it. Meanwhile twenty people are now breathing down each other’s necks
waiting to get to their seat. Nice stewardess comes along and saves the day;
she unzips the bag, lets his dog out... (just kidding). Now that we have to pay for our checked
baggage people are stuffing everything they can into their carry on and it is
making for interesting overhead and under seat packing.
Find your seat and carefully manoeuvre your arse into the
thing that resembles a seat but is actually just a bent piece of metal with
slightly stuffed cushion to sit on. With your knees up around your ears fish
around for your seatbelt and get it fastened , breathe out, let your knees down
and then pull your shoulders in tight because the seat next to you is now
occupied by some gargantuan mass of a man with cell phone in hand and a burger
from A&W in the other. Oh my God. I hope he doesn’t drop that on my nice
red coat and he better not burp or fart into my airspace. Help me now. And why does he need to be talking on that
damn phone while he is boarding a plane in the first place. I hope he bites
that instead of his hamburger. Don’t
make eye contact, don’t make eye contact. Oh well, it’s a short flight and I am
sure I will be okay.
Now for the fun part. Bless the hearts of the in-flight crew
as they stand in the aisle and ask all of their super attentive passengers to
pull out the card with the safety features and follow along. Do they really
think that any of us has lived so far away from civilization that we don’t know
what a seatbelt is, how to do it up and take it off?? They must get bored out
of their tree saying that over and over in English and then to repeat it in
French. Once that is over with they wait until the nose is in the air, the
engines are at full throttle and you can’t hear yourself never mind anyone else
and then proceed to give us further directions about something one would assume
is important but all it sounds like is that horrid teacher on Charlie Brown
that actually doesn’t speak. “Wha, wha,
whaaaaa, wha, wha wha, seatbelt, wha, wha, wha, turbulence, wha, wha,
wha”. Doesn’t sound any different in French
either.
Once we are at our cruising altitude it is time to sit back,
drop your table tray and indulge in the fine cuisine offered by our airline.
This comprises of an assortment of Coca Cola products, water, coffee, tea, wine
and beer (the latter two you have to pay for and they kindly accept all forms
of payment apparently). Please tell me why you would need to order alcohol on a
one hour flight? If I had to spend more
than an hour with that massive man hoovering up his hamburger I might have
purchased an entire bottle of wine but I chose a diet Coke and cookies instead.
Cookies you say? Oh yes, in fact,
according to the package these special cookies are, and I quote “Europe’s
favorite cookie with coffee”. Really? I
thought Europeans had fine pallets when it came to cuisine. Biscoff.
Not even an alluring name. Sounds more like some sort of upper
respiratory illness that comes in a small plastic package. Ginger flavored
styrofoam. Then I realized I wasn’t
drinking coffee with them so I am presuming that makes all the difference in
the world. The only other choice was
pretzels and I had those once before. I am sorry but you cannot pass off
sawdust compressed into a pretzel shape as a snack. That hamburger is looking good right now.
We no sooner finish our snack when we are notified by the
steward with the sexy Australian accent that we will be landing soon so we need
to put everything back in place and make sure our seatbelts are on. The pilots
bring down our plane with grace and ease, hardly a bump and everyone claps.
That is what they do on Westjet flights. Now, here is the funny part. The mere
act of landing on the tarmac does not equate with immediate opening of the
cabin doors yet there is always one or two dimwits who find it necessary to be up
and out of their seats before the seatbelt light is turned off . Where exactly
do they think they are going? No matter how you cut it, if you are in row 17
you will never get off the plane first unless you are on fire or having a heart
attack. So there they stand until everyone else is up and moving and the stairs
are ready to be used. I just don’t get it. Oh yes, and there is always someone who has to
get on their cell phone and let their wife know they have landed and he’ll be
out in a minute. Excuse me? Your wife is in the terminal building and can
clearly see your plane has landed; why do you need to phone her?
Living in the north you get used to getting on and off
planes without the luxury of a “tunnel” or whatever they call that thing that
attaches to the plane. Oh no, we go down the stairs onto the tarmac and walk,
in all kinds of weather and temperatures, to the airport terminal. Rain, snow,
-40C, you name it. We are a tough bunch. Our luggage is rolling down the carousel
within a few minutes of arrival and we are all reunited with loved ones who
have missed us while we were away. But one more thing...looking over I now see
a man picking up his suitcase and sniffing several wet spots that he has spied.
I stare in disbelief. He looks right at me and says “I’m just checking.. it’s
only rain though”. Oh thank goodness for that. I thought a dog peed on it
somewhere between the plane and the airport.
Can’t wait for my next trip!
