Flying: dreams and nightmares

I think it's true: flying is for the birds.

Unfortunately, humans think they need to get places faster, following the crow's flight.

So we hop (shuffle?) on a huge aluminum bird, and dream of good things to come.

Mostly, they don't.

Like a recent flight from Grand Rapids to Seattle, via Minneapolis, of course.
The weather turned on us, and we simmered on the tarmac in MPLS for more than an hour.
Minneapolis can be a cold place, but not in August.
And the nearly 200 hot bodies on the 757-300 kept breathing in stale air and emitting hot air, 

for only one of the plane's A/C's was working.

I tried shallow breathing and briefly considered requesting the lowering of an oxygen mask.

Eventually we turned our tail end to the thunder, rain, and lightning, and went airborne.

By that time everybody needed a shower, another reason for shallow nose breathing.

I'd like to stop here, in mid-flight, for the situation is about to get worse.

But we were not treated to supplemental oxygen, nor to parachutes.

So we keep flying, but I'll make it short for unpleasant memories' sake.

You see, the stale air eventually became acrid with smoke.

Flight attendants scurried about, re-seating people in emergency exit seats that suddenly had become uncomfortable for them.

The captain's voice informed us of an emergency, requiring him to land at the nearest airport.
We were over Montana, not exactly rife with commercial airports.

But from our altitude of nearly 40,000 feet we could, perhaps, safely coast to Spokane, WA.

And we did, met by a spate of emergency vehicles.

The airport at after 10 at night was pretty much asleep.
There was nothing to eat.

And the substitute plane from Seattle wouldn't do the pickup till about 3 in the morning.

We became campers of a sort that night, but not happy ones.

But there's always hope for a better return flight, right?

Right!

The return flight started auspiciously when Delta called around 7:30 in the morning to tell us that our flight was confirmed and would leave as given at 12:20.
It’s always nice to be confirmed, isn't it.  But our son with whom we had been staying was not able to access boarding passes online for us out of Seattle, and that was an omen.
Still, we trusted our itinerary info from Delta, and confidently strode up to the Alaska kiosk when our son dropped us off at Seatac.  Delta told us on the itinerary that they would use Alaska Airlines to fly us to Minneapolis.  Our son told us how good that was, for Alaska doesn’t use the terrible 757-300, comfortable for sardines only.
However, the kiosk “told” us to go find an agent.  We did.  That agent went in search of another agent.  That other agent promptly closed her counter to other clients after taking one look at our schedule and her screen.  We stood there in bemused expectation, wondering what sort of misadventure was awaiting us this time.  We stood there a long time, as she made phone calls, punched keyboards, and kept staring at her enigmatic screen.
Finally, she confided the sinister details: since we had landed – by virtue of unacknowledged equipment failure – in Spokane rather than our scheduled destination, Delta had mistakenly re-scheduled our return flight out of Spokane as well.  Hence, Alaska had no seats for us.
She invited us to go for a walk with her.  She led.  We followed.  She walked all the way to Delta, elbowed her way through the waiting crowd, got the ears of an agent, and then another agent.  Eagerly she looked him in the eyes as she asked, “May I leave this in your competent hands?”  Then she left, looking much relieved.
I looked at the agent’s hands, felt some doubt, but made the intentional choice of courting optimism.
It took quite some time.  Yes, what a good thing our son had dropped us 2 ½ hours before scheduled departure.
At last the man smiled at us and said, “This will work in your favor.”
That sounded good to our ears, though it was especially our wearying feet that needed favor.  But what was the favor?
I was hoping FIRST CLASS, of course.
“It’s a Delta flight that leaves at 1:10 and will still get you there in time to catch your flight to GR.  But we have no seats left in coach, so I’m putting you in FIRST CLASS.”
And I said, “Ah, some compensation at last for the troubled flight coming here.”  But inside I hurrahed a lot louder.  And we looked at each other with an expectant smile of much pleasure to come: priority boarding, wide comfortable seats, drinks, dinner on plates, maybe fillet mignon, luxury for almost 3 hours!
Who said that life isn’t fair, eh?  It was smiling on us right then and there.
The man with the competent hands handed us the first class tickets.  Without even looking at them, I stuck them securely in my pocket where no one could snatch them away.
We joined the long security check line, not minding much at all, and even hoping the PSA personnel would steal a glance at our ticket long enough to notice that we were FIRST CLASS –bound.  That should be enough for them to think twice about making us open a bag for individual inspection.
On our way to the gate area, we passed a number of enticing eating places.  We smiled somewhat condescendingly in their direction, relishing the fact that we were bound for more sumptuous dining, free!
After reaching the gate area, Ruth had to make one of her not infrequent visits to a resting place nearby.  When she returned, I said, “Follow me.”  As has been her well-practiced custom, she obliged readily.  I led her to a nearby Delta Sky Club Center, where only the very elite hang out.  In my hands I held two small tickets, a Day Pass given some time ago after another misadventurous Delta flight.  I had remembered to stick them in my billfold for this trip, though I had no illusion that we would actually have time or occasion to take advantage.  But here we were, a fitting prelude to our forthcoming first classiness.
We settled in comfortably, helped ourselves to a buffet of minor goodies, making sure our appetites would not be unduly compromised.  I fiddled eagerly, but vainly, to connect my gadgets to the free Wi-Fi; only our son may have the answer why my i-pake and netbook are allergic to unfamiliar hookups.  After much time-wasting, I comforted myself with the thought I would have another chance in FIRST CLASS, where everything would be perfect.

When the time drew nigher for eventual boarding, I glanced at our seating numbers.  I was assigned to A 6 and Ruth to A 3!  Well, surely the nice person at the Sky Club desk could speedily straighten that out.  I marched my documents to her.  She took one look and blanched.  I had seen that same look on the Alaskan’s face.  She started punching, screening, calling, conferring with her colleague at the desk.  It took a long time.  She called a supervisor to come and help, but no one came.  At last she handed our precious but confused seating assignments to her colleague, and told him she was out of there, unable and by now very unwilling to spend any more time on this vexing phenomenon. 
The colleague’s explanation came in bits and pieces: we should not have been assigned to first class b/c we had coach tickets.  BUT THE MAN WITH THE HANDS SAID THERE WAS NO PLACE FOR US IN COACH, THEREFORE THE ONLY OPTION WAS FIRST CLASS!  No, we could not be seated in first class, we would have seats in coach.  BUT COACH WAS FULL!  Your seats are 25A and 25B.

There was no time left to contest; no time left to buy some eats to hold us till home arrival time; only time to join the long line of coach-bound victims.
Thus instead of a one-time treatment befitting a baron and his spouse, we became sardines on yet another B757-300, munching not on mouth-watering appetizers and fortifying steak and lobster in capacious surroundings, but in straight-jacket positions on pretzels and cookies from the teeny-weeny Delta packages denoting the airline’s munificence.
Fortunately, we both had, in our circumstances, much-needed literature to read: I “The Christian Atheist” and Ruth “Love Mercy.” 
When we finished, we switched. 
I think it’s easier to reach a slight degree of sanctification when grandiose dreams of the high life have collapsed into a coach seat on a 757.
We hungered and thirsted for a china-served dinner and cloth napkins and a glass of Merlot. 
Instead we “suffered” a bit, more ready to identify with the suffering subjects of those books.
And we made it all the way home, on time!
Hungry, weary, but safe.

I do have something I’d like to say to that Delta agent with the competent hands, though.

The Quest for God (1)

The quest, was it more urgently prevalent in the middle ages? 
Did the Enlightenment sidetrack the quest?
Or is it built into our DNA, either to be acknowledged or denied?
Though nearly 70% in our country say they believe in God, atheism is also on the rise.
But in spite of selfism, consumerism, and materialism, does an unfilled need continue to persist?
Sometimes even undeniably?

Maybe Edwin Arlington Robinson had it right:

"The world is not a prison house; it is a spiritual kindergarten

where millions of bewildered infants

are trying to spell G-O-D with the wrong blocks."

Simon Tugwell in The Beatitudes stimulates my reflection too:

"It is the desire for God which is the most fundamental appetite of all,  and it is an appetite we can never eliminate.  We may seek to disown it, but it will not go away.  If we deny that it is there, we shall in fact only divert it to some other object or range of objects.  And that will mean that we invest some creature or creatures with the full burden of our need for God, a burden which no creature can carry."