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Madrid Red-Eye

Today on my flight from Atlanta to Boston, I was flipping through one of my journals and found the following passage to be mildly appropriate given I was on a plane, plus I had just attended a wedding that stirred up a bunch of gooey thoughts about my own era of matrimony. I think I wrote most of this while half-drunk on wine, altitude, sleep deprivation, and wedded bliss…

October, 2008, Red-eye to Madrid

Our Honeymoon started on the red-eye flight from Boson to Madrid. The boarding of the flight went smoothly, except for a small incident in the security line when two sensibly-shod middle-aged middle-classed Americans  butted directly in front of us in line. I felt that it was my duty — on behalf of the scores of fellow travelers behind us in line — to kindly but firmly inform the couple that “the end of the line is back there.” They stared at me with quivering jowls, not understanding.

“The woman at the information desk told us to jump into this line,” the woman explained.

“Then why not ‘jump into’ the very front of the line?” I asked. They stopped acknowledging me, and I had to stare at their unattractive necks for the next 20 minutes. My inner Bridezilla raged; I wanted to murder them. Mr. P looked on, oblivious. He still doesn’t understand what he has got himself into.

Our plane is less than half-full. The highlight of dinner was the red tempranillo wine — poor quality, but it whet our taste buds with what awaits us in Spain.

“Chicken or beef?” asked the stewardess when she came around with dinner.

“Um, how are they prepared?” I asked.

She stared at me before saying slowly, “Chick-en or bee-eef?” I’ve never flown Iberia before, and I can’t say I will jump at the chance to again. I’ve never been on an international flight when the crew has expressed such naked hostility and loathing for the passengers. Plus, the dinner contained the most contemptible dish ever: White bean salad with raw garlic. Quite simply an assault to the digestive system.

Sleep did not happen, even though Mr. P moved to occupy another 2-seat row, allowing me to curl horizontally across our two seats. The fact that I could lay down made the lack of sleep even more frustrating. I had dozed off for about 20 minutes when a man and a woman got into a lively conversation in the line for the lavatories, which were directly behind me. Somebody shushed them, but they persisted in talking about how they can never sleep on airplanes.

How I loath the cheerful vileness of Americans. We perceive ourselves as genuine, harmless souls, but allthewhile ignorant to the reality that our trite existence is actually a grave nuisance, a blight on the greater good. My anger welled like a tea kettle, and I erupted in a resolute “SHHH!” which they did not hear over the exuberance of their own voices.

So now it is later. The restroom glut caused by the bean and garlic salad has finally abated. I am staring with a little bit of disbelief at a breakfast tray of a cellophane muffin, yogurt, and orange juice. The day is already beginning, the Honeymoon must commence. We will get off the plane, find our rental car, and make our way through La Mancha to the mountains of Andalusia like two sleep-deprived foreigners in love and with mild indigestion.

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