18 June Heading Home

United Flight 949, second time

Here I am, crammed in seat 40A.  I was the one who wanted a window seat!  Unfortunately, the 6' 5" young man in front of me immediately reclined his seat, forcing my laptop into my (now softer) belly.  I can barely type with my elbows crammed into my sides.  Mrs. Grumpy next to me slammed down the armrest and took it over.  Mind you, she is about 5'4" tall, a decades past retirement age (be kind now, Jenyth), and playing music loud enough that I can hear it through her noise-cancelling headphones into my noise-cancelling headphones.  Maybe something is going on in the wireless world.  What is not working is the plane's internet.

Clearly, I am suffering from a case of First World Syndrome.

They are going to serve a full lunch, a light snack, a heavy snack, and make four beverage runs.

The wine and beer are free,
back here in economy-
your elbows touch your knee
my cheap fare ain't so easy.

The amount of food on this plane could probably serve a lot of homeless people.  Now I have the attitude of gratitude.

My commute to the airport was quite fun today.  I took the tube from London Bridge station on the Jubilee line, switched at Waterloo station because the Jubilee train was crammed full of commuters at 8:00 a.m. and the ventilation wasn't working.  My roller bag wouldn't behave in such a crowded space where standing room only means standing on top of your neighbor.  Exiting the Jubilee train into the blast of subway air was great;  the next Bakerloo train arrived in less than a minute.  I took the brown line all the way to Paddington, and remembered to exit where there was a ramp instead of stairs.  I felt a sense of victory.

Paddington Station is so awesome - the ribs of the ironwork are artistically designed, and there's a great deal of shopping.  I want a Paddington Bear, but I only have 11 pounds 30 left, and the cheapest one is £14.95.  I have exhibited extreme credit card discipline this trip and am not going to blow it.

Because I am so cheap, I bought an off-peak ticket on the Heathrow Express.  I had to wait 45 minutes to get on a train after 9:30, and I realize if I don't get the 9:40 my time in the airport will be stressful.  Everything works according to plan, even though no one ever checks my ticket on the train.  I could have gone for free.  I remember to look at my Fitbit.  The walk from the Express train stop to Terminal 2 for United is at least a mile long, and if my gate is 31-49, I'll have an additional walk under the tarmac in a hallway where you can feel the planes overhead.  Of course, I'm gate 48.

What is it about my face?  Stopped three separate times in "random" airport searches and identity checks.  The third time I was taken into a room on the side of the United gate and asked even more questions.  This interrogator was completely stoic.  I said, "Please check anything of mine you'd like. I want this plane to be as secure as you do."  I then asked her if there was something wrong with my passport.  She claimed they have an algorithm that randomly selects people.  Three random selections seems like the algorithm is as manipulated as Facebook's.  Steps:  3458, or 1.729 miles.

Well, United offers TV, but no World Cup game.  England is playing; you'd think they'd at least announce a score now and then.  A terrific biopic of Leslie Caron entertains for an hour, but I start thinking about my experience, and wondering.  What should Belgium do with all of those cemeteries?  How will the U.K. commemorate the armistice?  I'm sure it will be a grand occasion.

In the U.S., we are taking down Confederate statues, as if the past that glorified the exploits of Robert E. Lee can disappear.  What is the best way to remember the tough times, the less than glorious battles where no one really wins?  What part do I play in remembering World War 1 this fall, knowing that most Americans don't feel any connection to it at all.  In fact, not many World War 2 veterans are still alive.  My dad, a WW2 vet, was never that interested in WW1.  But I am nearly obsessed with those soldier poets who thought they died for nothing.

What will I do this 11.11.18?

"Now must I throw my little candle on his torch..." wrote Wilfred Owen.