Insight: The Skies the Limit

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I recently had to fly out of state to attend an event and not having flown or visited the airport for a while, my best advice for those contemplating boarding a commercial aircraft anytime soon is to check your emotional baggage at the ticket counter.

When first reviewing the flight schedules for my destination, the thing that stood out the most for me was the difference in cost for traveling early in the morning as opposed to times later in the day. The least expensive flights are the ones departing around 6 a.m., and therefore those are the ones I chose. But the catch for flying that early in the morning is I had long layovers and waits to catch the connecting flights to my destination.

Despite the early hour, I found long lines and crowded TSA security checkpoints in the terminals. I had been able to check in and could receive my boarding passes on my iPhone, but I wasn’t able to check my suit bag in that way, so I had to visit the ticket counter to do that. Before it could be sent to the plane’s cargo deck though, I had to pay $40 for that privilege.

Going through security, I discovered that you no longer are required to remove your footwear for agents to check for shoe bombs. But you do have to look into a specialized camera for facial recognition and present identification embossed with the REAL ID symbol.

On the way to the gate, I passed by several airport bars with patrons already visiting there at 5:30 a.m. and observed that the line of individuals waiting at Starbucks had reached more than two dozen.

At two different airports that I had flown into, the restroom was convenient, but I had to carefully select a stall to use because I did not want to set my canvas carry-on bag in puddles of an unknown liquid substance on the floor nearby. Also, at one of the Philadelphia Terminal F men’s restrooms, it had 12 sinks with soap dispensers for hand washing, but only two dispensers contained soap.

Boarding the airplane for my seat in Row 8 departing my home airport, my seat space was all of 22 inches wide. And even though the seat cushion can be removed and used as a flotation device during an emergency flying over water, it wasn’t very comfortable. And when you are wearing a coat like I was, buckling the seat belt is a challenge.

Fortunately, I was able to stash my carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, but it left no room to extend my feet beyond my tiny space on the floor. Having that option though was helpful as the surrounding overhead airplane compartments near my seat were already filled with backpacks and carry-on luggage even though our boarding group got to get on soon after parents traveling with small children, the disabled and those flying first class.

Each flight I took was on the same airline for this trip, so I found that each safety instruction briefing prior to takeoff was an identical pre-recording. None of the flights I was on offered water or peanuts, but if you wanted, you could purchase liquor or beer even if it was before 8 a.m.

While waiting for a connecting flight to my destination, I decided that I would look and see if any vendor selling food on the airport concourse had something I would be interested in eating. It was barely 9 a.m. and other than Starbucks, which had posted a large sign saying it was out of croissants and fruit cups, the only restaurants open in the airport at that hour were several unhealthy choices in Sbarro Pizza, Burger King or Smashburger.

I opted to purchase a cold drink from an airport convenience-like storefront. The choices were limited to two coolers containing tall cans of energy drinks with names I couldn’t read or decipher or a plastic bottle of Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Coffee.

The cost of the iced coffee also shocked me when I went to pay. No pricing was indicated for anything in the cooler or in the store for that matter and the digital register display showed that including tax, my 13.7-ounce bottle of Dunkin’ ice coffee was $12.99. And that particular store did not accept cash for merchandise, it only took smartphone payment app systems or debit or credit cards.

Even worse, about 15 minutes later while sitting at the gate waiting for my flight, I felt like I had to blow my nose. Ironic as it was, I had to return to the airport store and buy a small pack of Kleenex. I first looked in the nearby restrooms, but they did not offer paper towels, only electronic hand-drying machines and all toilet stalls were being used. I then felt fortunate paying only $8.99 plus tax for a small package of 10 disposable 3-ply tissues.

It’s been a few years since my previous flight and after this latest trip, my thought is that it's better to be on the ground wishing I was up in the air than up in the air wishing I was on the ground. <

Andy Young: Still living the dream(s)

By Andy Young

Traffic, as it inevitably does on weekday mornings, slowed to a crawl on the Merritt Parkway.

My first reaction: annoyance. The earlier-than-usual delay meant I’d be late for school.

Fuming because I was boxed into the right lane directly behind a bus full of schoolchildren, I spent the next 10 minutes inching along at five miles per hour. Finally, after crawling around a curve at a snail’s pace, I saw the bottleneck’s cause.

A sad-looking man was standing beside a car with steam billowing from beneath its hood. Irritated, I wondered why anyone would take such poor care of his mode of transportation. But I also couldn’t help noticing no one was stopping to help him, even though he had his thumb out. Feeling more empathetic than angry, I spontaneously decided to play Good Samaritan by picking him up and taking him to the nearest service station, even though doing so would make me even tardier for work.

But as I drew closer, I saw that the stranded man was none other than Willie Mays, who is considered by many to be the greatest baseball player the game has ever seen. Reassessing the situation, I realized the universe had arranged this meeting because Willie and I were destined to become friends. The selfless act I was about to perform on his behalf was no doubt arranged by some higher power to help accelerate that process.

Except … the school bus picked him up first! Not only that, but traffic remained snarled for another ten or so miles, which meant that not only was I late for school, I had to continue following that immense yellow vehicle, helplessly watching Willie Mays smile beautifically as he handed out autographs and tips on playing center field to every kid who asked.

I was still seething when it occurred to me that:

A) Buses aren’t allowed on the Merritt Parkway

B) I haven’t lived in Connecticut for three decades

C) Willie Mays died over a year ago; and

D) My alarm was going off, and my dream of meeting baseball’s best center fielder had been just that: a dream.

This was by no means my first such nocturnal imagining. Some years ago, I scored from first base on a home run by my Chicago Cub teammate Gordie Howe at Wrigley Field, even though in reality Howe was his generation’s greatest ice hockey player. Then a few months ago I awoke from a vivid dream of Montreal Canadiens center Jean Beliveau taking me on a tour of Biddeford in his monster truck.

Just last week I found myself grabbing a rebound in a college basketball game, and firing an outlet pass to my teammate Larry Dierker, a former pitcher for (and manager of) the Houston Astros. We broke downcourt two-on-one against a lone but familiar-looking defender. Dierker tried to get the ball back to me, but LeBron James’s defense was so effective that Larry, out of sheer frustration, fired the basketball as hard as he could, trying to ricochet it off LeBron’s hip and out of bounds. Unfortunately, it deflected off me before going over the sideline. “Larry!” I yelled. “Does my hip really look like LeBron James’s hip?”

We all smiled; it was a friendly game, apparently. But as I slowly regained contact with reality, I recalled that neither Larry or LeBron had ever played college basketball. And as I shook loose the last of the cobwebs, I reluctantly remembered that I definitely hadn’t either.

So, what do all these bizarre overnight athletically themed fantasies mean? Don’t ask me. I don’t analyze ‘em; I just dream ‘em. <