We’ve all seen and heard the horror stories in recent years about people’s terrifying experiences on various airlines: endless lines at the airport; luggage searches; delays in boarding or take-off; cramped seating; screaming babies; angry — even violent — passengers; stressed-out flight attendants. And at the end of the trip, lost luggage.

I haven’t flown lately, but I did a lot of traveling during the 1990s and early 2000s. And while things were considerably easier before 9/11, my travels were not without incident — some of them funny as hell, and others . . . well . . . just plain hell. But let’s stay with the more amusing ones, and leave out the details of the missing bags in Moscow and Prague; the security search in Rome; the lost reservation from Rome to Malta; the broken escalators in Milan; and the cigarette smoke, collapsing seats, and flying luggage on Aeroflot. Actually, that last one was pretty funny, but I’ve already covered it in another chapter.

In April of 1990, I was part of a team from a law firm that was one of the sponsors of a conference being held in London on doing business in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. Some of our advance group were already there, so I flew alone — my first solo overseas trip. (An earlier excursion, in 1988, had been with a guided tour group to the Soviet Union.)

The flight from Washington to London was not full, and I was able to score a triple seat to myself, where I put up the arm rests, grabbed a pillow and a blanket, and stretched out after dinner for a good night’s sleep. But the return trip five days later was a whole different story. I was flying home with one of our other team members, and we were in the center row of four seats — she was on the right aisle, I was in the second seat, there was an empty seat to my left, and a man who buried his nose in a book and remained silent throughout the flight was in the aisle seat next to that.

The conference, combined with a bit of sightseeing and partying, had been hectic and tiring, and about halfway across the Atlantic, I began to feel sleepy. So I put up the armrest between my seat and the empty one, slipped off my shoes, turned sideways, and curled up for a little nap. And when I awoke, I realized that my right leg had stretched out a bit, and my shoeless foot was resting comfortably . . . on the stranger’s thigh. And since he had continued reading and wasn’t moving, I could only assume that he didn’t know how to react, or perhaps was actually enjoying a little human contact. In either case, since he had been so unfriendly from the beginning of the trip, I didn’t want to deal with him. So I pretended to still be asleep, shifted position — gently removing my foot from his leg — and kept my eyes closed for a few more minutes. Then I “woke up.” And he never looked up from his book. His loss.

*. *. *

Later that same year — in the blazing heat of July — I traveled to Texas with two Washington lawyers, a Soviet diplomat, and the diplomat’s wife, to visit the Confederate Air Force at Harlingen. (That was a fascinating story in itself, and is the subject of its own blog post of February 16, 2023, appropriately titled “The Confederate Air Force.” Check it out if you’re interested.)

Anyway, on the packed flight home, I ran into one of those screaming baby situations. I was seated next to a pleasant young woman with an adorable but very upset year-old boy on her lap. I don’t know whether he was frightened, feeling the change in air pressure, or just tired; but he simply wouldn’t stop crying. The mother was becoming very embarrassed and frustrated; and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t enjoying it much either. I took my key chain from my purse and shook it in front of the little boy, and it distracted him enough to stop his crying for a moment. So I suggested to the woman that she might want to get up and stretch her legs, and that I would be glad to hold her baby for a few minutes. Well, we were on a plane, up in the air, so she knew I couldn’t run off with him, and she gladly agreed. And as soon as that little boy landed in my lap, he turned off the faucet of tears, grabbed my keys, and rewarded me with the biggest, most beautiful smile. All he needed was a distraction.

If there’s a moral to the story, I guess it’s this: If you find yourself in an unpleasant situation, and you think there might be something you can do about it, then do it — don’t just sit there being miserable. It won’t always work, but it might. That little boy would be around 34 now, and I’m sure he doesn’t remember the incident; but I’ll bet his mother does.

*. *. *

And speaking of unpleasant situations. . .

On one of my trips to Russia, I was booked on Lufthansa with a change of planes in Frankfort, Germany. And it was quite an experience. To begin with, German efficiency was apparent everywhere. The flight left on time; the plane was spotless; the service was excellent and the food delicious; the flight arrived on time; and the airport at Frankfort was scrubbed to a shiny clean finish. And I’ve never been so happy to get off of a flight in my life, before or since.

“Why?” — you ask. “It sounds perfect.” Well, let me tell you. The couple seated next to me were beyond annoying — in fact, they were the worst seat mates ever. Now, I am not a violent person; but after a little while I really wanted to smack them silly — or better yet, send them to sit in the cargo hold for the rest of the trip.

Actually, it had all started out well enough. They were an attractive couple: a man and wife, both well-educated and pleasantly chatty, who had been on their first visit to the U.S. for a professional conference in New York, followed by a few days in Washington. So as we were getting acquainted, I asked the obvious question: what were their impressions of the two cities, and of the United States in general?

Big mistake. Huge! Because they immediately launched into a diatribe on the many faults of my beloved country, and everything they had hated: the architecture, the traffic, the crime rates, the educational systems (he was a teacher), the TV programming, litter in the streets, the way the young people dressed, the food . . . In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single thing they did like. And I listened quietly, seething inside, until they both seemed to run out of insults. And then I spoke.

“Well,” said I, “you have made some valid points. We do have a crime problem in our large cities; but that’s all you saw, and you weren’t in any of our lovely small towns or rural areas. And our inner-city schools are often in need of improvement; but each jurisdiction is independent, and most of them are just fine. I do agree with you that there’s a lot of trash on TV. We’re not perfect . . . but, on the other hand, we’ve never started a World War.”

Oops!

Even over the roar of the plane’s engines, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Those two people sat up straight, as though someone had shoved poles up their self-righteous asses, and they never uttered another word throughout the flight. Nor did I. I would have asked to change seats, but the flight was full. So instead, I buried my nose in a book . . . quite satisfied with myself for having thought of the perfect comeback at just the right moment.

A word of advice: you do not — ever — trash my country to my face. In fact, you don’t do that to anyone. Would you go into someone’s home and start criticizing the decor, the kids, the nice dinner they prepared for you? I should hope not. And I would not ordinarily dream of saying such a thing to anyone from any country; but they asked for it, and I merely gave them a taste of their own medicine. Now, please understand — these were just two individuals out of a whole country, most of whose inhabitants I have found to be perfectly lovely people. I just happened to be the unlucky one to have had those two as seat mates.

*. *. *

But the flight eventually ended, and things got funnier in Frankfort. As I mentioned, I was en route to Moscow, at a time when there was a serious shortage in Russia of hard currency and you couldn’t always get travelers’ checks cashed. So I had prepaid my air fare and my hotel reservation, and brought with me $3,000 in cash (the equivalent of more than $6,000 today), rolled up and stashed in a small cross-body bag that I wore under my jacket.

Going through security in the Frankfort airport, I placed my carry-on bag and my jacket on the conveyor belt and began to walk through, when the inspector said I also needed to remove my little cross-body bag — the one with the money in it. I had a rather silly mental image of the long strap possibly getting caught in the machinery and my $3,000 being chewed into confetti, so I asked if I could keep it on and just let him look inside the bag. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he called his supervisor over.

I have no idea how to say “Humpty Dumpty” in German, but that’s who the supervisor reminded me of. He was a round, jolly-faced gentleman, with a happy personality — the total opposite of what one would expect of a security officer.

He had me step aside and asked (in English) what the problem was. I assured him there was no problem, and explained about the money, the long strap, and again offered to show him the contents of the purse. When he looked inside and saw the $3,000 bankroll, he asked where I was going; and when I said I was headed to Moscow, he understood the issue, nodded and said, “Oh, okay. No problem.” And as I gathered my belongings, said “Danke schoen,” and began to walk away, I distinctly felt his chubby little hand patting my backside in farewell.

Now, I am an independent, liberated, American woman, who doesn’t put up with that kind of crap. My first instinct was to turn around and deck him with my carry-on bag. But I was also an American woman, alone in a foreign country, with $3,000 in her possession, headed for Russia. And the last thing I needed was to be arrested for assaulting a federal officer. So — for one of the few times in my life — I shut my mouth and walked away. And then I laughed . . . and laughed . . . and laughed. That jolly little man was actually pretty cute, and I decided it was best to be flattered that he thought my behind was worth patting. No harm done, and it made a good story to tell my friends when I arrived in Moscow.

*. *. *

I’ve gone on long enough now. And I’ve devoted whole chapters in the past to other travel adventures. Those were all before the disaster of 9/11. Travel since that date has never again been as much fun, and sadly, it probably never will be. But at least I have my memories of better days.

See you tomorrow, I hope, when we check out some people you probably didn’t know were so old . . . or still alive.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/15/23