Typically, there are two things I always make sure to do when I get on a plane:
1. Look pissed off, sad, uncomfortable – just generally unapproachable. This is a no-brainer here people. Do you really want to spend the duration of your flight chatting up the person next to you about your travel plans or, even worse, their travel plans? To avoid, I suggest looking mad, sitting in your seat and promptly looking out the window. If you have a window seat you can always turn your head away and feign interest in whatever is going on outside the plane. I mean hell, even clouds are more exciting than hearing about how some dude was out in Denver for the past 3 months because his company was planning on opening a satellite office but now he's on his way back to Detroit because it fell through. Spare me the details; I barely understand what a satellite office is, nor do I care.
This first rule of thumb also works for buses, trains, standing in line at the DMV, family reunions…. You get the idea.
2. The second ritual I practice when I get on any plane involves establishing piece of mind in case our plane happens to crash on a remote deserted island; which is to say I look around the plane and find the hottest, seemingly unattached guy who I will plan to make my boyfriend and common-law husband so that we can become the mayor and first-lady of our new remote paradise. (I imagine our crash site to be more like Gilligan’s Island than Lost). I say unattached because, duh, if the guy is clearly traveling with his girlfriend or wife, it’s highly unlikely that I will have the time to undermine her and steal him away during those first few crucial hours after the crash. Mostly because I’m lazy and that sounds like a lot of work. Oh, and he should be handy- I don’t want some pretty boy who can’t build us a sufficient hut.
(Please note- if the person sitting next to you appears to be the cute, unattached handy-man of your dreams you can disregard rule number one.)
Usually this second exercise is futile because up until this point my traveling has been limited to the landlocked U.S. However, I am about to board a plane headed to Paris, France which gives me like 5 hours over the wide open Atlantic Ocean and , while I’m no cartographer, I’m pretty sure there are some islands we could crash land on. (I'm also pretty sure I know what cartographer means...)
Unfortunately for me, the first leg of my transatlantic journey, that of flying from Cleveland to Detroit, was ruined due to a fundamental breakdown of my two cardinal rules. I got on the plane and the person sitting next to me was already in our row. That sucks. He saw that I was carrying a rather large carry-on and, rather than being a jerk and letting me struggle to get it in the overhead bin as I would have preferred, he stood up and helped me. Well shit, I can be a real beotch sometimes but I’m not going to blow off some guy who just helped me. I figured I’d give him until take off to chat me up and then were through and it’s back to scoping out my island husband and just generally ignoring everyone around me. Too bad the guy wouldn’t shut up the whole time. In fact, when I turned away to look out the window he actually leaned over and looked out the same window and started talking about that. “Huh, do you think that’s Toledo down there?” Who gives?! The cherry on the top of my shitty ass flight (thank god we’re only in the air for like 20 minutes) was when Sir Chats-a-lot, after finding out I was meeting a friend in Paris, told me his son went there and thought it was a dirty piss-hole. Well, if it’s all the same to you I think I’m still gonna go, but thanks. Jerk.
I’m happy to report that the second leg of my trip went much better. This is due in most part to the fact that I was flying first class and it was an absolute fucking miracle up there in the first class cabin. I mean Christ, I can’t even imagine the hellish ordeal being in coach for that whole 8 hour flight would have been. As soon as I sat down they were throwing champagne at me, warm towels were abundant and we even got a delicious three course meal. So first class ticket, coupled with the fact that I was seated next to a French man who, besides not speaking English (bonus!) he had that usual rude French thing going on so even if I spoke the same language I’m pretty sure he still would have ignored me. I gorged myself on free food and alcohol, watched half of The Departed and then fell asleep through the night, only waking up when the flight attendant had to shake me awake and tell me to get my chair into the upright position for landing. Pretty fucking fantastic flight if you ask me.
Moral of the story- fly first class next to a Frenchman and you'll be right as rain.
1. Look pissed off, sad, uncomfortable – just generally unapproachable. This is a no-brainer here people. Do you really want to spend the duration of your flight chatting up the person next to you about your travel plans or, even worse, their travel plans? To avoid, I suggest looking mad, sitting in your seat and promptly looking out the window. If you have a window seat you can always turn your head away and feign interest in whatever is going on outside the plane. I mean hell, even clouds are more exciting than hearing about how some dude was out in Denver for the past 3 months because his company was planning on opening a satellite office but now he's on his way back to Detroit because it fell through. Spare me the details; I barely understand what a satellite office is, nor do I care.
This first rule of thumb also works for buses, trains, standing in line at the DMV, family reunions…. You get the idea.
2. The second ritual I practice when I get on any plane involves establishing piece of mind in case our plane happens to crash on a remote deserted island; which is to say I look around the plane and find the hottest, seemingly unattached guy who I will plan to make my boyfriend and common-law husband so that we can become the mayor and first-lady of our new remote paradise. (I imagine our crash site to be more like Gilligan’s Island than Lost). I say unattached because, duh, if the guy is clearly traveling with his girlfriend or wife, it’s highly unlikely that I will have the time to undermine her and steal him away during those first few crucial hours after the crash. Mostly because I’m lazy and that sounds like a lot of work. Oh, and he should be handy- I don’t want some pretty boy who can’t build us a sufficient hut.
(Please note- if the person sitting next to you appears to be the cute, unattached handy-man of your dreams you can disregard rule number one.)
Usually this second exercise is futile because up until this point my traveling has been limited to the landlocked U.S. However, I am about to board a plane headed to Paris, France which gives me like 5 hours over the wide open Atlantic Ocean and , while I’m no cartographer, I’m pretty sure there are some islands we could crash land on. (I'm also pretty sure I know what cartographer means...)
Unfortunately for me, the first leg of my transatlantic journey, that of flying from Cleveland to Detroit, was ruined due to a fundamental breakdown of my two cardinal rules. I got on the plane and the person sitting next to me was already in our row. That sucks. He saw that I was carrying a rather large carry-on and, rather than being a jerk and letting me struggle to get it in the overhead bin as I would have preferred, he stood up and helped me. Well shit, I can be a real beotch sometimes but I’m not going to blow off some guy who just helped me. I figured I’d give him until take off to chat me up and then were through and it’s back to scoping out my island husband and just generally ignoring everyone around me. Too bad the guy wouldn’t shut up the whole time. In fact, when I turned away to look out the window he actually leaned over and looked out the same window and started talking about that. “Huh, do you think that’s Toledo down there?” Who gives?! The cherry on the top of my shitty ass flight (thank god we’re only in the air for like 20 minutes) was when Sir Chats-a-lot, after finding out I was meeting a friend in Paris, told me his son went there and thought it was a dirty piss-hole. Well, if it’s all the same to you I think I’m still gonna go, but thanks. Jerk.
I’m happy to report that the second leg of my trip went much better. This is due in most part to the fact that I was flying first class and it was an absolute fucking miracle up there in the first class cabin. I mean Christ, I can’t even imagine the hellish ordeal being in coach for that whole 8 hour flight would have been. As soon as I sat down they were throwing champagne at me, warm towels were abundant and we even got a delicious three course meal. So first class ticket, coupled with the fact that I was seated next to a French man who, besides not speaking English (bonus!) he had that usual rude French thing going on so even if I spoke the same language I’m pretty sure he still would have ignored me. I gorged myself on free food and alcohol, watched half of The Departed and then fell asleep through the night, only waking up when the flight attendant had to shake me awake and tell me to get my chair into the upright position for landing. Pretty fucking fantastic flight if you ask me.
Moral of the story- fly first class next to a Frenchman and you'll be right as rain.
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