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Up in the Air - Again
I am not a huge fan of flying, but you do have to tolerate this advanced form of transportation if you really need to get somewhere easily. Ever since 9/11, I have been a bit more anxious about flying. It is not that I expect a terrorist attack (although we all think about that now), it is just the whole experience of flying has lost its appeal to me. I don't like lines. I don't like hassles. I don't particularly like crowds. I would much prefer to get in my car and head out to my destination, which in many cases, is not practical or economical.
A few days ago, I fly to Southern California to attend an annual professional conference. As in years past, I am one of the speakers. I really have little difficulty with this type of crowd. I can stand in front of a microphone in an auditorium with a thousand people and feel comfortable. I meticulously write out my talk, practice it (a little bit), and then never look at my notes during the entire lecture. It takes me a few minutes to get going, but then they have to bring one of those big hooks and pull me off of the stage. I am never short on stories.
I flew down a day earlier to visit my old college buddy. He recently had brachytherapy for his prostate cancer and jokes about being radioactive now. He looked great; sort of had that "glow about him". Robert and I, along with his college roommate, sang in a three-man quartet (we couldn't ever find that 4th singer). To this day, we still know those tunes, and he can still play that piano and harmonize. I think we sound pretty-good, but then again, we had an audience of one. When old friends get together it become a laugh-fest. We begin to re-tell stories and try to re-live some of those happier times in our lives. The early 1970's was a turbulent time in the world, but tucked away in a small rural college in West Virginia, we were spared much of the Vietnam war protests, racial unrest, free love, hippies, and drugs. There was a little bit on campus, but most of the time, our lives revolved around classes, complaining about cafeteria food, and just shooting the breeze.
During school holidays, we would hitch-hike somewhere; another lost mode of transportation. We didn't seem to think very much about getting picked up be axe-murderers and crazed hillbillies. We just wanted a cheap and relatively-fast way to get from point A to point B. Our longest trip was from West Virginia to New York City. All of us, in teams of two, made it in one day. We would proudly share our ride experiences; both good and bad. Maybe we were oblivious to the risks of this practice, but teenagers tend to ignore risks.
The last time that I hitch-hiked was about twenty years ago. My wife and I had a long weekend without the kids so we decided to take a three day trip down the Eel River in Northern California on a canoe; camping out along the river. It was a nice float; a bit too many portages - a problem if you pack heavy and your canoe is aluminum - but nice nonetheless. There is nothing more relaxing than floating down a river in a canoe. We passed many, neatly-cultivated fields of marijuana, tucked in among the fields of wine grapes. They were tended by nervous-looking ex-hippies hoping that we were not Narcs. We didn't look like Narcs, but paranoid people see Narcs everywhere. We had to pick our camping spots carefully, since I had no idea we were traveling at the height of the pot harvest. Many people do not realize that marijuana is California's number one cash crop. Grapes are number two, if you want to know. Even in my college days, I was never a fan or user of marijuana, or alcohol for that matter.
Well, I got off-track again. I wanted to blog about air travel. I packed (tightly) everything that I needed for five days in one carry-on. My laptop and camera filled my briefcase. I beeped through the metal detector - my new watch and my belt buckle, but it was my bag that troubled the x-ray screener.
"Please come with me," he said politely.
The TSA officer took my bag for a physical inspection. Of course, I am in my bare feet waiting for my laptop and camera to come through before someone ripped it off.
"Do you have a Leatherman's Tool in your bag?"
"No, I don't own a Leatherman."
"Well, we see one in there..." I am thinking, "Great, I always wanted one of those."
So, he dug and he dug through my neatly packed rolls of underwear, socks, dress shoes, and assorted electronic gear that charges your laptop and cell phone. I had nothing to hide, and I had come in plenty of time.
My "Leatherman" turned out to be the buckle on my shaving kit (Yes, men with beards shave!), overlying some other junk. No Leatherman, of course, but no one will take your word.
Many years ago, I was traveling with my son to fulfill a promise. We went to Cooperstown, NY, to the Baseball Hall of Fame to see Mike Schmidt be inducted. Mike Schmidt was my son's idol. On the way home, my son had bought a pewter disk about the size of a coaster with Mike's face embossed on it to add to his impressive collection of Schmidtobelia. This time, we were pushing the clock to make our flight. And, wouldn't you know it - the metal disk prompted a bag search.
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A few days ago, I fly to Southern California to attend an annual professional conference. As in years past, I am one of the speakers. I really have little difficulty with this type of crowd. I can stand in front of a microphone in an auditorium with a thousand people and feel comfortable. I meticulously write out my talk, practice it (a little bit), and then never look at my notes during the entire lecture. It takes me a few minutes to get going, but then they have to bring one of those big hooks and pull me off of the stage. I am never short on stories.
I flew down a day earlier to visit my old college buddy. He recently had brachytherapy for his prostate cancer and jokes about being radioactive now. He looked great; sort of had that "glow about him". Robert and I, along with his college roommate, sang in a three-man quartet (we couldn't ever find that 4th singer). To this day, we still know those tunes, and he can still play that piano and harmonize. I think we sound pretty-good, but then again, we had an audience of one. When old friends get together it become a laugh-fest. We begin to re-tell stories and try to re-live some of those happier times in our lives. The early 1970's was a turbulent time in the world, but tucked away in a small rural college in West Virginia, we were spared much of the Vietnam war protests, racial unrest, free love, hippies, and drugs. There was a little bit on campus, but most of the time, our lives revolved around classes, complaining about cafeteria food, and just shooting the breeze.
During school holidays, we would hitch-hike somewhere; another lost mode of transportation. We didn't seem to think very much about getting picked up be axe-murderers and crazed hillbillies. We just wanted a cheap and relatively-fast way to get from point A to point B. Our longest trip was from West Virginia to New York City. All of us, in teams of two, made it in one day. We would proudly share our ride experiences; both good and bad. Maybe we were oblivious to the risks of this practice, but teenagers tend to ignore risks.
The last time that I hitch-hiked was about twenty years ago. My wife and I had a long weekend without the kids so we decided to take a three day trip down the Eel River in Northern California on a canoe; camping out along the river. It was a nice float; a bit too many portages - a problem if you pack heavy and your canoe is aluminum - but nice nonetheless. There is nothing more relaxing than floating down a river in a canoe. We passed many, neatly-cultivated fields of marijuana, tucked in among the fields of wine grapes. They were tended by nervous-looking ex-hippies hoping that we were not Narcs. We didn't look like Narcs, but paranoid people see Narcs everywhere. We had to pick our camping spots carefully, since I had no idea we were traveling at the height of the pot harvest. Many people do not realize that marijuana is California's number one cash crop. Grapes are number two, if you want to know. Even in my college days, I was never a fan or user of marijuana, or alcohol for that matter.
Well, I got off-track again. I wanted to blog about air travel. I packed (tightly) everything that I needed for five days in one carry-on. My laptop and camera filled my briefcase. I beeped through the metal detector - my new watch and my belt buckle, but it was my bag that troubled the x-ray screener.
"Please come with me," he said politely.
The TSA officer took my bag for a physical inspection. Of course, I am in my bare feet waiting for my laptop and camera to come through before someone ripped it off.
"Do you have a Leatherman's Tool in your bag?"
"No, I don't own a Leatherman."
"Well, we see one in there..." I am thinking, "Great, I always wanted one of those."
So, he dug and he dug through my neatly packed rolls of underwear, socks, dress shoes, and assorted electronic gear that charges your laptop and cell phone. I had nothing to hide, and I had come in plenty of time.
My "Leatherman" turned out to be the buckle on my shaving kit (Yes, men with beards shave!), overlying some other junk. No Leatherman, of course, but no one will take your word.
Many years ago, I was traveling with my son to fulfill a promise. We went to Cooperstown, NY, to the Baseball Hall of Fame to see Mike Schmidt be inducted. Mike Schmidt was my son's idol. On the way home, my son had bought a pewter disk about the size of a coaster with Mike's face embossed on it to add to his impressive collection of Schmidtobelia. This time, we were pushing the clock to make our flight. And, wouldn't you know it - the metal disk prompted a bag search.
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