Monday, August 29, 2016

Come on and Take my Free Ride

First, the rule is you take on 1 piece of carry-on luggage that you can fit in the overhead bin and 1 piece of personal carryable something, that can be stuck under the seat. This means that you shouldn't have 3 bags, your shopping bag, your hat and ukulele. On the flip side, if you sell someone a seat, you, as an airline, should provide space for one piece of carry on luggage in an overhead bin. If my piece conforms to FAA (or whatever) regulations, I should be able to put it above my seat and not worry about it. The wheeling and dealing on the flight was ridiculous, mostly because people brought 2 or 3 pieces of luggage plus other bags. Bins were opened and closed, feelings were hurt, fingers were crushed and I sat there, comfortable in the knowledge that my bag was stowed and safe. Of course, when we landed I had to look around for it because during the game of musical bins, someone moved mine without telling me.

We took off close to on time and I had a chance to watch both X-Men: Apocalypse and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I'm better for the experience. This 777-200ER was an older model with no video on demand and a generally junkier in-flight entertainment system. But before I complain too much I have to recall the olden days when an 11 and a half hour flight required that you talk to other people because there was almost no entertainment. So at least this was something.

For breakfast, the choices were "omelet" and "Blinches." Sure, they looked good, but they are not blinches. There. I just needed to call them on that.

I did get some sleep (the flight left at 12:30 AM so I was ready to nod off anyway, but the beer helped). I put the headphones in and tuned to whatever channel seemed inoffensive for the moment, slipped on the eye shades and sat up real straight and napped. I woke often to the sound of screeching children but I just cranked up the music, found another channel and fell back asleep. I anticipated something for this flight -- I knew Maddie wasn't coming back so I expected that I would wallow in my sadness with an empty seat next to me. I bought the ticket and checked her in online, and when I presented myself at the counter to explain, the woman seemed to understand. I sat down and dumped some stuff on what I expected to be an empty seat. Imagine my surprise when a man came over and sat down. Now, I didn't ask to see his ticket and I'm too non-confrontational to say anything, but inside, I was livid. How dare he sit there. My righteous indignation knew now bounds and at least 2 dimensions. One, this was a seat for my kid. It should be treated with reverence. Second, I paid for the seat -- I wanted the meal that came with it, the space in the overhead bin and some room to stretch out! But it seems, El Al resold that seat once I told them that Maddie wasn't coming. Now it would make sense if they, after having resold it, refunded me some money, even if just a percentage. Maybe they could kick a hundred bucks as a compensation for making an empty seat for them to resell at substantially more than that. Maybe they could move me up to first class and give me a pedicure. Maybe. Maybe not.

But did they have to sell the seat to a guy who spreads out onto both armrests? Jerk.

At 1.5 hours before landing, I filled out the Customs Declaration. I thought as a religious powerhouse, writing about my customs would be easy but that was not what the form was about. In truth, I have no idea what the form was about. I'm 47 years old and have no idea what I signed. I wrote my name and address on it and said that I didn't have $10,000 worth of bearer bonds, fruit flies or tractors and tried to read the back. After failing at that, I looked at the spot that asked me to list what I bought and I wrote "doggie poop bags" because I did. I hope they appreciate that honesty. Then I looked around because no one said what I was supposed to do with the paper after that. I needed an adult. Why, along with an air marshal, isn't there an air accountant or air tax advisor? Everyone else seemed totally comfortable filling out the paper work with no help and they were all chatting and laughing at me. If I had gone to high school on an air plane, this would have reminded me of that. There should be a class in school about Customs Declarations.

I skipped breakfast (blinches?) and thought to myself "I could really go for a candy bar right now." Let me explain.

There are many things I love about Israel and I especially love all the food options, but I am allergic to many nuts and this means that I can't eat anything after the main course in Israel. When I go to Israel, I break my no-carb diet so sweets SHOULD play an important role in that. However, everything is made with nuts, especially my arch nemesis, hazelnut (AKA filbert). Regular chocolate there has hazelnuts in it and the cross contamination is rampant. In America, the phrase "may contain nuts" is a legal requirement and usually can be ignored. (I did say usually, not always). In Israel, when they say "may contain nuts" they mean "yeah, you know this has nuts in it." So as much as I love main courses, I crave dessert and as much as I crave dessert, I cannot have any of it. For the longest time, people in America begged Israeli friends to come visit and bring large amounts of candy that is only supervised as kosher in Israel. If I spend time in Israel, I will have to beg American friends to bring in American candy so I can survive. Weird.

Anyway, I got off the plane quickly and ran up the stairs to get to customs. Some guy asked me who I was, stamped some paper and sent me into another line where more silly questions were asked and papers were collected. I was hoping that, much like the hallways on my entrance to the airport, the space between the customs hall and baggage claim would include a candy store or the like. But there was NOTHING to eat so I stood next to the baggage carousel (worst. carousel. ever.) and watched the same 3 pieces of luggage go around for 25 minutes. There was no motivation to get there quickly if the stuff isn't loaded onto the conveyor belt for 30 minutes after arrival. My bag arrived in the midst of the pack and I tried not to knock over too many small children who were crowding next to the machine, but what happens in Newark stays in Newark, so let's leave it at that.

My elder is in an apartment, learning how to turn on a stove, how to keep herself busy and how to do whatever it is is her dream to do. More power to her. Thank you for bearing with me as I vented my way to and from the Holy Land.


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