Plane Tales (with apologies to Kipling)

We landed at SFO on "a warm San Franciscan night." Except that it was afternoon, and we were on a plane. We were tired, but we had good company; Jim and Nancy had become our traveling companions. We made our way together through the airport like a band of great white hunters on safari. In other words, we had no idea how to get where we were going, but we followed the sign of our quarry--large printed signs that often seemed contradictory or poorly placed--to reach our destination. Our destination was the international terminal, the Hotel California of airport terminals; once you enter you can check it out all you like, but you can never leave.

Once we found the international terminal and passed through the security, we knew that we had entered  A Whole New World. Sweet perfume wafted to our nostrils, beckoning us onward into the labyrinth. Stores for perfume and jewelry--Hermes, Cartier, and Swarovski--these and more promised awe and wonder in the international terminal. Perhaps there would be dancing girls with finger cymbals, veils, bells, and elaborate headdresses giving us free fruit baskets and chocolate bars. Let me just say, there wasn't any of that. No dancing girls. No free fruit. No free chocolate bars. None. At. All.

After we found our gate, we found that we hungered. The search for food began. We did find a number of eateries, each with a European flair. Based on the prices, I must surmise that each dish and simple sandwich had been carefully prepared in Europe and then shipped by private courier to the SFO international terminal. My wife and I split an outrageously priced tri-tip dish with new potatoes. Jim and Nancy had something similar. We all went back to our gate to eat our meals because there wasn't any place left to sit in the food court. As for the meal, it was delicious!

The remainder of what transpired before the plane arrived and we were allowed to board can best be described as waiting...we did a lot of it. The highlight was that we got to charge our phones. Jim eventually left to refill water bottles. After he returned, I did the same. I found a blonde girl (teenager or early 20's maybe) in sandals, yellow shorts, and a white top at the fountain, trying with only limited success to fill her bottle from the actual drinking fountain rather than the special bottle-filling station which was located where the fountain met the wall. There was a bottle outline and a button...obvious, once you notice it...if you notice it. I asked her if the other part wasn't working. She looked at me strangely (I get a lot of that), and said, "What?" in accented speech. (I'm guessing it was German). I pointed at the bottle-filling emblem. "Oh. I didn't..." she said, giving me a look that indicated how foolish she felt. She thanked me and quickly filled the bottle at the station.

Do you ever notice people? We had a lot of time to notice people coming and going from the terminal. I can still see many of them in my mind's eye. I made particular note of one guy...because of his hair. His hair was long and dark...both longer and darker than my wife's hair. The hair came to his shoulders and turned up; it reminded me of pictures of one of Jackie O's hairstyles from the 60's (here's what I mean). When he turned around, I could see that he sported a pointed moustache and goatee-like facial hair as well. I thought he looked a bit like a musketeer; the rolled up jeans and sandals did rather detract from the musketeer effect. Perhaps the incongruity is what struck me; or my own state of cranial deforestation made me envious.

At last, after a good deal of time spent waiting in lines based on our ticket type, we were allowed to board. We had to show our passports and plane tickets. My wife and I were together, but as we approached, she was directed to the right where another person was inspecting tickets and passports. I was in like Flynn...but there was no sign of my wife. I kept looking back through the stream of humanity, expecting to see my wife appear. She kept not doing that, appearing, that is. Jim and Nancy were in the stream but a little way behind me. No wife. I wondered if I should turn back and swim upstream to make sure that she had't been pulled out for special interrogation, or for some flaw in her passport or boarding pass. Just when I was about to go back, I saw her. She had stopped not appearing. She was way back there, but it was her. After we got seated on the plane with Jim and Nancy, I expected some words about not having waited for her. She had no harsh words. The problem hadn't been with her or her papers, but with the guy immediately in front of her; he had issues and had caused her to be delayed. She got through with no problems.

As for the flight itself...long, boring, miserable. I could go on, but that's not a part of the trip that I want to relive.

Next stop: Frankfurt...and the problem Rachel left for us with our tickets for the connecting flight.