Saturday, February 25, 2017

Flipping Backward, Flipping Forward...Flipping Forget It


Last seen in Hamburg...
How much crazy, zany fun can actually be had flying from Japan to New Jersey and back? Enough for one blog post? Two, maybe, if the kids or the wife or the person in the next seat really goes off the deep end? Three if everyone goes long?

Besides one record-setting vomit exhibition there was little on either of our flights that would strike the passive passenger. BUT…to the ultra-observant there was enough for five blog posts. Yes, I am that perceptive.

I would have stopped at four, but United Airlines had to, on December 29th, put a copy of the January issue of Hemispheres, their in-flight magazine, in the seat pocket in front of me for my thirteen-hour journey back to Japan. Why can’t they just quit it with the fodder? Don’t they understand I can’t keep my derisive mouth shut?

In other words, this is all United’s fault.

As I explained in this post, I flip through magazines from back to front. So once again my juvenile amusement at United’s expense starts with the back cover and an ad for…I have no idea.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Buds, Socks & Violence

In-Flight Sensorial Entertainment

The best thing to ever happen to an overseas flight.
I like flying. I always have. Despite the occasional and inevitable stresses, the idea-come-to-life of getting into a metal tube, taking off into the air and landing somewhere usually far away and sometimes worlds apart has never failed to stir something visceral and pleasing in me.

This morning, however, has been something else altogether. (If you read my last post you know what I’m talking about.) So as I sit restlessly in my seat in the waiting area outside Dulles Airport’s Gate 29, waiting for United Flight 803 to Tokyo to begin boarding, I look over at my family with the kind of pride that can only come from the fact that I haven’t strangled anyone today.

Two vinyl-cushioned seats to my right sits a woman who is also watching her kids – who, like my kids, are noticeably half not-Japanese. I imagine her husband is from an English-speaking country, which would virtually guarantee that she speaks English. This is because we English-speakers can only handle not speaking English for so long.

She looks calm though not completely at ease. Then again that pretty much describes every Japanese person alive. Still, we’ve got a good fifteen minutes before we go anywhere and I want to make use of this chance to meet someone new.

I like talking to people as much as I like flying. Because you never know who you’ll click with. You never know who will become a life-long friend.

You never know who might have a vacation house.

Plus, with a ready-made conversation (“So where are you headed?...Yes, I mean where in Japan?”) and a bunch of empty minutes to fill, I feel compelled to throw out at least a nugget of small talk because, to put it bluntly, I feel stupid if I don’t.

“Your kids are cute,” I tell her. It’s true. They are. They’re also a bit hyper but it’s a big plane, I’ll probably never see them again except maybe at baggage claim. (Cue ominous music.)

“Thank you,” the woman says, barely a hint of an accent. Which means her husband can probably count to ten in Japanese and not much more because (and I see it all the time in Japan) he doesn’t have to.

Our conversation inches along and I find out she went to university in North Carolina, where she met her now-husband – who is now returning from somewhere that, judging by his expression, was not particularly thrilling. I nod when we make eye contact. He nods back – I think – and turns a disinterested eye to his older daughter. She seems about six, the average between her 8-year-old height and her 4-year-old demeanor.

The woman tells me they live in Okinawa now, on the main island where she grew up. I tell her without a drop of false interest that I’d love to see a little bit of Okinawa… that I’ve been dying to check out Miyakojima and Iriomotejima Islands… and have been since I first got to Japan in 2001… because it all looks so beautiful and serene… and then of course there’s the Ryukyu culture… which must be pretty interesting…

And I wait…for a reaction…a small tinge of mutual interest…

“You should go,” she says, dropping her sentence off like it’s the end of our conversation.

So much for that vacation house.

My kids are being their usual sleep-deprived selves. My middle kid is walking up and down the rows of seats, slapping each empty one as he goes. His older brother is slouched in his seat on the other side of my wife, daydreaming and sticking his leg out every time his brother makes another pass. My daughter is singing as she goes through this sort of slow-motion interpretive dance routine entitled “Indecision”. My wife seems to be enjoying it, insofar as she doesn’t have to do anything about it.

At this time we’d like to welcome aboard our passengers who pay us extra money to make them feel special, as well as any families traveling with small children. Please make your way toward the gate so we can begin our pre-boarding. The rest of you, please stay in your god damn seats until we make our general boarding call.

They never say that last part but I think they should.

Up at the gate is a woman with a tightly-clipped ponytail and a voice that makes you wonder if she ate too many crayons when she was a child. Her job for the moment is to scan our boarding passes and our passports on a little white machine. My wife hands them to her and gets an immediate tongue-lashing. Show me your passports ONE AT A TIME, open to your picture, and with your boarding pass right side up NOT upside down.

To the passive observer this might sound like anger, or frustration, or a slowly percolating breakdown. But I know what it is – leftover burnt sienna and periwinkle.

Behind a partition wall no fewer than four people in wheelchairs are facing the gate, anxiously waiting to board. They’re all surrounded by sizable entourages, half made up of strangers who don’t want to wait for general boarding as if that will help them get to Tokyo any faster. The wheelchairs and the entourages are all in a clump, and there’s nowhere for us to wait but in the empty space between them and the gate.

The evil in their eyes abates when my daughter rolls her walker into view.

It returns when the rest of her entourage shows up.

As we all wait for someone to open the door to the jetway I decide that instead of letting these four groups of people pass I’m just going to board ahead of them. I know, this isn’t going to get us to Tokyo any faster either. We could board dead last for all I care. Of course it’s nice not having to apologize to thirty-seven rows of people for my son slapping their armrests as he walks down the aisle.

Propagating a Smelly Japanese Tradition

My first ever flight to Japan was a journey into novelty and odd habits. At the gate in San Francisco Airport a woman with neat black hair and a voice like honey was offering up all kinds of announcements in Japanese. People were bowing to each other, trading words I couldn’t comprehend. Everyone had clean luggage. Not since my last visit to the mall in New Jersey did I feel like such a minority.

On the plane I sat upright in my seat, jittery with excitement. I’d have talked to someone if I thought anyone could understand me. As it was I’d spend the minutes before take-off reveling silently in everyone’s odd behavior.

Some people were folding their jackets and tucking them neatly into the overhead like they were stocking the shelves at Nordstrom’s. Others were maneuvering their neck pillows into place, or straightening out the safety pamphlets and barf bags in the seat pockets in front of them. One of the flight attendants made her slow, smiling way down the aisle, passing out ivory white washcloths that had within the last eight seconds been dunked like spring rolls in a pot of boiling water. The flight attendant wouldn’t even touch them. She was using a pair of metal tongs to pass them out – into the bare hands of the passengers smiling all around me.

While I was playing hot potato with my scalding spring roll the Japanese person across the aisle calmly unrolled hers and began methodically wiping her hands. The man next to her buried his face in his before caressing his throat and neck with it. A bald man three rows up tossed his steaming cloth into the air and started shining his tan-yellow dome.

My fingers were starting to blister. What were these people, firewalkers?

Self-immolation exercises over, they all started sliding their shoes off. To my relief no flight attendants came down the aisle with a tray of hot coals. Instead my new friends simply placed their shoes neatly under the seats in front of them and got comfy for the ten-hour journey home.

Now that, I thought, is more like it.

I’ve been flying with my shoes off ever since.

Much to the chagrin, perhaps, of those seated near me.

I was up this morning at 4:15, dressing myself in warm clothes and caffeine so I could drive my sister to Newark Airport for her little flight back to California. (Six short hours and three measly time zones. Pshaw.) By 5:00 I was on my way back home to dump my own family into a van with all our stuff to go right back Newark Airport. From there we flew to North Carolina where we had to make a run for our next flight to Washington, DC where we then had to go through security (where they don’t even make you take your shoes off anymore, how’s that for ironic?) and find our way to our next gate – which was, of course, at the far end of the terminal, nothing beyond it save for the window that kept my daughter from launching herself right out onto the tarmac.

Almost a full eight hours in these socks. Another eighteen to go. I sat in the waiting area near our gate, trying to land a free vacation house and dying to free my feet from their sticky, sweaty straightjackets. Whoever was going to be sitting next to me on the plane would do well to have a stuffed up nose.
 
I can handle the flight. My feet can't.

And look! Who’s sitting next to me? My new sort-of friend from Okinawa!

“Time to relax for a bit,” I say, smiling, hoping to share a bit of light-hearted commiseration.

“Unfortunately we have to fly to Okinawa after we get to Narita,” she says.

I offer her a trade, her flight to the sub-tropics for my drive north to freezing Fukushima.

That free vacation home was obviously not meant to be.

I kick my shoes off and get comfy.

And Now to Cover My Ears

I’m in the middle seat in the middle section of the plane. My daughter is in the aisle seat to my left, saying no to every kids movie and cartoon on the in-flight entertainment menu. The next twelve hours should be fun. Her mother is across the aisle, an empty seat between her and the girl at the window. My boys are right behind me and Little Miss Thumbs Down.

We only bought these plane tickets a month ago so the seating arrangement is actually quite fortuitous. It’ll be even better if the wife trades places with me at some point.

My kids’ excitement about the in-flight entertainment free-for-all was equaled only by my excitement about the free in-flight beer. I decided I’d leave them alone if they’d do the same for me.

Yeah right.

I’d barely polished off my first can of Goose Pilsner when my daughter broke the beautiful silence between us.

“Daddy I can’t…” She doesn’t know how to say what she wants so she starts jabbing at her touch screen. This, I take it, means she’s bored with the cartoon she’s been watching for fifteen minutes. In German.

While packing for our return to Japan I found an old pair of headphones – from my son’s school on Long Island I think. Finders keepers. I stuck them in my carry-on. Now, with everyone else trying to keep those silly little ear buds from falling out of their ears I’m setting up for some in-flight surround sound.

That is, until Little Miss Nichtvergnügen tells me her silly little ear buds won’t stay in her ears. (“Daddy, this… um… mimi kara ochiru” to quote her verbatim.) And since I’m Dad of the Year again I give her mine. And ask her to listen in a language she understands.

So much for my in-flight surround sound.

Reason #465 I love flying: the chance to see a few movies I’ve never seen.

I like movies. Some of them I love. But life comes with about eight hundred thousand options for spending any given two hours, and for me watching a movie rarely ranks high enough to get a turn. Same for TV, particularly now that all but about four of those eight hundred thousand options involves doing something with my kids, doing something for my kids, or cursing while I’m cleaning up after my kids.

On a plane, however, my parental obligations are limited. The bathroom is back there, go for it; push this to play Dora…and this to change it to English; here use my headphones now be quiet and enjoy the show.

On a plane I tend to limit my parental standards as well.

Kids are finally fully occupied. Wife is more or less snoozing. And my feet are drying out and feeling great. I snag another beer, stick those cheapo ear buds halfway to my eardrums and get ready to dig into one of those television series people are always talking about.

Today I start with Game of Thrones. I’ll admit that until this moment I knew nothing about the show except (1) I was in the planetary minority for never having seen an episode, and (2) one of the characters is played by a guy I went to high school with. Okay, I didn’t go to high school with him, he was a couple of years ahead of me and I don’t think we ever spoke. All of which adds to my shame for (1).

And all right (3) I also knew that ‘Thrones’ (I can call it that now) takes place in a world without electricity, soap or blue jeans. Everyone (I imagined) wore animal skins and furs, and metal things meant to keep them from being impaled by other metal things wielded by other people in animal skins. So I could add ‘rules against impaling people’ to the list of things that didn’t exist in this world.

Still, I was not prepared for the opening scene of this particular episode. Holy Christ.

My barf bag goes flying as I whip my in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket to shield my daughter’s eyes from the carnage. Simultaneously I’m jabbing at the touch screen to make it all go away. My daughter gets nightmares if an episode of The Smurfs has too much Gargamel, this gorefest would send her into an irreversible clinical fugue.

Luckily she’s deep into her cartoon, where all the people and animals and furniture are speaking Korean, or maybe Hebrew.

I’m still clearing my own head of the carnage when the meal carts appear.
One of my five mid-flight snacks and my only mid-flight beer.

Reason #6 I love flying: the in-flight meals. Let me tell you why.

First off, it provides an excuse to order another beer. Second, I like food. Third, I actually like airline food. I do. Because it’s like Christmas, peeling back that aluminum foil cover to see what kind of surprise awaits inside. You can order the fish or the beef or the pasta or the Spanish omelet, but there’s no way you can predict what it’s going to look like. Just like traveling itself, enjoying your in-flight meal requires a certain amount of intrepidness.

One last reason I like airline food comes into play when I’m traveling with my kids. I don’t bother requesting kids’ meals, I just let those flight attendants bring them the real deal. Which they can rarely finish without my help.

The downside to mealtime on a plane – in the middle seat of the plane’s middle section between two women who are in no rush to clear their plates and return their trays to the upright position – is that I’m stuck in my seat. Might as well have my seatbelt on though I can’t even shift enough to pull it out from under my butt. So as much as I look forward to eating, soon enough I can’t wait for it all to disappear. My desire to get up and stretch is always – always – at its highest when I can’t.

The real-time flight map puts us over the Hudson Bay. I suspect this means a view of gray water or a view of gray clouds. In December the Far North doesn’t exactly sparkle with sunshine.

Six miles below the emergency exit window the waters of the Hudson Bay are indeed dark and gray, running in long crooked lines through a vast mosaic of ice floes. As far as I can see the world down there is made up of nothing but sheets of white and streaks of liquid charcoal.

There can, in nature, be beauty in monotony.

The flight attendant in the kitchen area behind me asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. I say yes, because she seems genuinely happy for the chance to pour me a cup of coffee and because I figure it will help keep me awake so I can enjoy another Goose Pilsner.

Back in Row 38 my boys are turning into screen-watching zombies and I tell them to take a break. For the first time in their lives they agree, without argument or hesitation. It’s like they want to stop watching but have been rendered helpless by their glowing, pixilated masters, destined to remain frozen and staring until someone comes along and says the magic word. They’d both doze off in the next ten minutes. Which means they’ll rest their eyes, they’ll rest their tired systems, and they won’t be downing any Cokes for at least a couple of hours.

My daughter, on the other hand, is already unconscious. This is good. Half of her unconscious self, however, is on my seat. This is bad. My wife has her feet up on the empty seat next to her. She’s out too. Finally, a chance to sit and relax and enjoy my flight with absolutely no interruptions – and I’ve got no place to sit.

Not true, actually. I have the front half of my seat. Which means a close-up look at the opening scene of another movie I’ve decided to watch: Lincoln.

This graphic bit of cinematography is unlike the beginning of that Game of Thrones episode in that there are hundreds more men, much more civilized in their textile uniforms as they brutally slaughter each other. I shut it off and look for the Smurfs.

Instead I find the funniest television show ever conceived: Impractical Jokers. This sort of artistry demands proper viewing. Read that as justification for saying Screw it, if my daughter is that tired she’ll sleep through this. I lift her head, shoulders and half her torso off my seat so I can slide in under her. She lets out the obligatory whimper and falls silent again, her head on my lap and her feet sticking out into the aisle.

The next hour of Impractical Jokers is pure revelry. The woman next to me seems unnerved by my laughter. Serves her right for not inviting me to Okinawa.

I pass on a movie involving Denzel Washington and a big gun and flip open my copy of Hemispheres,United’s in-flight magazine. We’re still a few days shy of New Year’s but the January issue is already out. They must have read my breakdown of the December issue.

My thumb stops on a page advertising a gadget that, as far as I can tell through all the platitudes and eco-fluff, is a solar-powered remote-controlled module thingy that you can connect to your ‘smart home ecosystem’. In other words, you can now use ecologically responsible solar power to turn on the microwave, the toaster, the blender, the television and all the lights in the house ten minutes before you pull into the driveway.

Not surprisingly there are ‘a great deal of people eager to get on the waiting list for this product before it becomes a worldwide craze.’

Yes, this is just what billions of people across Sub-Saharan Africa and the Asian interior have been pining for. Along with maybe food, clean drinking water and band-aids.

We’re well up into the Arctic Circle when I slide out from under my daughter (whimper, shift, keep sleeping) and go back to my window at the emergency exit door. Below us the world is pitch black. Up above the universe is even pitcher black. Straight ahead, a few thousand miles beyond the light at the tip of the plane’s wing, a horizontal strip of blue splits the blackness in two. The bottom edge of this streak of heaven is lined in orange. This is the edge of the Earth, the top of the world, hiding a sun that now hangs above the Indian Ocean, or maybe Sri Lanka.
 

Literally, the top of the world.
Like everyone else who isn’t a vampire I’ve seen thousands of sunsets. But somehow, seeing the sun’s last rays over the western horizon is nothing like witnessing that same sun throwing its light up over the top of the world. If you’ve never seen it I highly recommend it. (If, once you see it, you aren’t wholly moved and impressed that’s fine I guess. Just don’t come crying to me for a refund.)

Behind me the flight crew is preparing our mid-flight snack. If my kids are still sleeping I get to eat four of whatever they’re serving. I look over at my wife when I get back to my seat.

Make that five.

The downside is that the flight attendant serving the drinks won’t give any of my children a Goose Pilsner with their snack.

My female not-quite-friend from Okinawa is gone from the seat next to me, replaced with her husband. I ask him where he’s from although I already know from his wife. I ask him what sparked their move to Okinawa (where, I know, his wife is from). I ask him how he likes it and what he does.

Exhausted from the string of two- and three-word answers he’s given me, he doesn’t ask me any questions.

Still on the list of in-flight movies I want to see is The Reverent. I know less about this flick than I did about Thrones. (I didn’t go to high school with Leonardo DiCaprio so I feel no shame about it.) Actually, I know nothing about this blockbuster (was it a blockbuster? I don’t know.) except at some point our hero Leo is going to be out in the cold, probably for a long time.

What is it with United and their fetish for gore-laden movies? Where’s Adam Sandler when you need him? Good lord.

My daughter is stillsleeping, in the same position she was in when I left her. So how the hell did she get all tangled up like that in her headphone cord? It takes me thirty minutes to extract the thing from her curled-up body and the blankets and pillows she’s unconsciously commandeered. And all throughout I’m glancing over at Leonardo and his not-nice friends. I don’t know what any of them are saying, though it’s easy enough to guess.

Holy shit, those people are coming to kill us!…Holy shit they killed a lot of us!…What are we going to do with these bear skins? Leave them here. No! Yes! No! Yes! No Yes No Yes Holy shit here come more people to kill us!…

By the time I pull the headphones free from the static lump of chaos that is my daughter and her debris Leonardo is all by himself so no one’s saying anything. Then the bear shows up so at least I get to listen to the growling and grunting and (insert gerund for whatever Leonardo is doing as the bear rips into him).
Rare nobody-getting-an-arrow-to-the-face scene from The Reverent.
For the last twenty minutes Mr. Motormouth’s older daughter has been sitting on his lap. She’s facing away from me, so she hasn’t been able to see all the people on my screen getting an arrow in the face.

She also isn’t able to nail me with any of the vomit that is suddenly shooting out of her mouth. This isn’t a mouthful of spit and bile from the recent bit of turbulence. This is a scene from the Exorcist. What has she been doing, chugging Goose Pilsners?

By the time she’s done dad has about a quart of putridity spread quite impressively over a large portion of his t-shirt and jeans. He puts his movie on pause and Denzel Washington freezes, right in the middle of shooting a bunch of people in the face.

After an hour of fun involving the interminably upbeat flight crew and a bunch of spray bottles with biohazard symbols on them, only a couple of water stains and the faint odor of half-digested mid-flight sandwich remain. That and a plastic garbage bag with dad’s clothes in it. He’s back in his seat, in shorts and a sweatshirt, likely wishing he’d just stayed in North Carolina.

It’s around 8pm New Jersey Time. That makes it 10am in Japan. That also makes it 36 hours without sleep save for the few minutes I might have dozed off before my alarm went off at 4:15am. And really, it’s no big deal. Because even if you take away all the movies and food and free Goose beer, I love flying. I love living the fantastic idea of stepping into a metal tube on one side of the Earth and, a bunch of hours later, stepping out into the other. I love looking out over the world, at ice floes and endless clouds and the orange line of the light of the sun streaking across the infinite black universe.

Despite the inevitable stress and the moments of quiet rage and the silly ear buds, I love it.

We’re flying over Japan, south along the eastern coast that dips in and out of view beneath my
I spent eight years of my life down there, somewhere.
emergency exit window. Out the window to the west a hundred thousand clouds float above the mountainous snowscape of the Tohoku region, where for the better part of eight years I spent my time living and teaching and cycling and exploring. And still, just in this one part of Japan there’s still so much I haven’t seen.

Back at headquarters the kids are awake. Bleary-eyed and disoriented, they seem unsure about whether they want to bring their television screens back to life. Mr. McVomit is back in his original seat in the row in front of me, watching the Simpsons with a pair of pink headphones on. Probably took them from his daughter for her Exorcist routine.

We’ll be eating again shortly. I will be, anyway. No guesses as to what the kids will do. Then it’s all procedure: fill out the customs declaration card (one per family), pass through immigration, collect our baggage and hitch a ride back to J-Parking where our van will be waiting.

My wife will have stashed two cans of Goose beer in her carry-on. I’ll want to guzzle them and fall asleep in the passenger seat.

But no. Because being Dad of the Year comes with no reprieve from responsibility. So I will drive as we head north toward Tohoku, the land we just flew over, to go stay a few days with my wife’s parents at their home in Fukushima.

The kids are rested and happy. My wife is not driving and happy.

It feels good to be home, on the other side of the world.

Hello again, Japan.
 

Thursday, January 26, 2017

How NOT to Plan Your Flight Overseas

Yet Another Air Travel Tragicomedy 

 ACT ONE 

December 29, 2016 – 3:30am  I’ve been curled up on the floor since quarter to two, in the makeshift futon my mom always puts out for my family when we visit. It’s comfortable. It’s warm. It’s not helping my pre-flight insomnia.

I can never sleep the night before flying overseas. It used to be excitement that kept me awake – a single guy, off to explore yet another foreign land, no responsibilities except for himself and even that was debatable. It’s different now. Now I fly with four other people, meaning five airplane tickets, meaning boo-koo bucks meaning I have to find the cheapest flight out there. Which leads the to unenviable prospect of another low-priced, high-tension Chinese airline experience.
 
The Plan: Limo from home (A) to Newark Airport (B). Fly to Raleigh-Durham (C). Fly to Washington Dulles (D). Fly to Tokyo-Narita. Total flight time: 17 hours. Total layover time: About 4 seconds. This should be interesting.

I’m excited to get back to Japan. I always am. But tonight it’s that unenviable potential for disaster that’s keeping me awake.

And this time I can’t even blame China.

Our return trip to Tokyo involves three flights: Newark to Raleigh-Durham, then up to Washington Dulles, then the big plane over the Pacific. Our first layover is a whopping thirty minutes. The second’s a luxurious sixty. One minor delay, one smart alec (Baldwin) on either of those first two flights and poof. We’re looking at fifty hours in the same underwear, I'm paying exorbitant late fees at the parking lot near Tokyo-Narita Airport, and I can add booking flights to the list of things the wife no longer trusts me with.

Last night I bought a case of Yuengling for the fridge in the basement, to replenish (half) what I drank over Christmas. I’d pour four of them down my throat right now except I have to drive my sister to the airport in an hour. This is also my fault, thanks to the deal I made with my mom’s husband after dinner yesterday, in a chocolate-induced funk of generosity.

“I’ll wake up and take sis to the airport at four-thirty,” I said through a mouthful of dark ganache and raspberry, “if you can be ready to follow us to the airport at six. Which you may not have to.”
 
He was over the moon with the Dutch caramel, he probably would have agreed to anything.

I knew he’d have to. Last year the limo company we hired sent over a freelancing mom with an SUV to take me, the wife, three kids and five hundred pounds of luggage (I weighed it) to Newark Airport. She took one look at that mountain of suitcases and hyper-taped cardboard boxes and pulled out her cell phone.

“Ain’t no way I’m gonna fit all this stuff,” she said to her dispatcher. “You gonna need a second car or something.”

Before I even had a chance to ask, my mom’s super-husband was grabbing his keys. “Put some of your stuff in my truck,” he said. “I’ll follow you to the airport.” I think he was kind of expecting it.

“Wait, no,” my mom protested in bathrobe and slippers. “This is the limo company’s responsibility!”

True. No time. Bye Mom, love you.

We’re using the same limo company this time. (“They’re really great,” my mom said for some reason. “And cheap!”)(That’s probably the reason.) So our three-flight circus should get off to a lively start.

I bury myself deeper under the futon blankets.

My alarm is set for 4:15 – approximately the time my wife will stop snoring.

The Previous Night, 8:00pm  I’ve got everyone’s clothes and the kids’ Christmas loot and a hundred pounds of miscellaneous crap all packed up and piled in the garage. My wife has the kids all bathed, brushed and in their pajamas. This has got to be a pre-flight record for us.

The wife is going to read to the kids and, if history holds true, fall asleep before they do. But my night is nowhere near over.

I still have to draft two travel articles I’ve been commissioned to not plagiarize. And I have to go buy a pair of trail running shoes. Yes, have to. Japan doesn’t stock a lot of size elevens. And trail running is an integral part of my Sanity 2017 program.

“Mom, can I use your car one last time?”

It takes me thirty minutes to drive to REI and trade a hundred and thirty bucks for a pair of Salomons. Across town at Willie’s Liquors it takes thirty seconds to trade another twenty dollars for a case of Yuengling. Back at mom’s, showered and caffeinated, I spend four hours researching and writing and uploading those two travel articles. For this I will be paid exactly what I just gave REI.

The fridge in the basement is humming, boring deeper and deeper into my consciousness as the clock ticks past 1:30.

Damn that raspberry ganache.

December 29 – 4:15am  I’m still awake when my alarm goes off. (Right on cue, my sleeping wife goes silent.) I pull my clothes back on and shuffle down to the kitchen – to find super-husband sitting at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, code for I got up in case you couldn’t.

I pour coffee on my cereal as my sister gets ready.

5:00am. Outside Terminal C a stagnant river of brake lights casts a red glow on people pulling wheeled suitcases through the dark. The cars are backed up three deep where we sit, tapering to a bottleneck halfway up the hundred-yard drop-off area. At the far end the curb is empty.

Typical Jersey.

“This is fine right here,” my sister says, and jumps out of the car. “Thanks Kev!” she calls out as she yanks her bag from the trunk. “See you guys this summer!”

“You got it,” I yell back, though I had no idea we’d be seeing her this summer. The wife, I suspect, was busy making air travel plans for next year while I was out spending that ticket money on sneakers.

5:45am. Wife and boys are ready to go.
 
Daughter is pushing her oatmeal away, insisting our flight is not until tomorrow.

6:00am. Car shows up. Toyota minivan. Perfect if we could leave a suitcase and one kid behind. Our driver is sure we can pack everything in. I think he’s from a place where there are few traffic rules, no taxi regulations and no known phrase for maximum seating capacity. I appreciate his friendly fervor.

SuperStepdad ambles into action, car keys in hand. Mom says her good-byes from the garage and goes back to bed.

6:40am  Terminal C drop-off is now a four-lane logjam. “Go to the far end,” I say to my driver, who doesn’t look as comfortable with the chaos as he should, considering where (I imagine) he’s from. Maybe he doesn’t understand why people here keep waiting for their cars to come to a complete stop before jumping out.

I pop my seatbelt off and open the door as we’re still pulling up to the curb. (Mr. Minicab either doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice.) The side door opens automatically. And way too flippin’ slowly. I funnel my family out into the cold, polluted morning. “Stay on the sidewalk!” I tell my kids. They want to help with the bags. I want to help them not get hit by a car.

I’m pressing some cash into José’s hand (be honest, the chances are pretty good his name isn’t Sean) as our second car pulls up.

“Grandpa!”

“STAY ON THE SIDEWALK!”

6:43am  Through the glass walls of the terminal building I can see a bloated, snaking line of people and suitcases. Behind them the lights of the check-in counter beckon with all the charm of that lamp over the dentist’s chair.

Out here on the sidewalk there’s not a single abandoned luggage cart in sight. And I refuse to pay seven bucks to use one. This is mainly out of principal, although if the wife really is making plans to fly somewhere this coming summer I’m going to need that seven bucks.

My sons are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, hands on our wheeled suitcases, ready to take off running on their next ill-fated adventure. The wife is readying my daughter’s new three-wheeled all-terrain stroller (My Jeep, she says). She’ll balance my daughter’s walker on the Jeep’s pushbar, stick my daughter’s ladybug backpack in the net thing underneath, plop our daughter in the seat and sling her handbag over her shoulder.

That leaves me with two suitcases, a huge green duffel and five overstuffed boxes. And still no abandoned carts. My boys are on the starting line. My wife suddenly decides to pull out her camera. I want to put on my new Salomons and take off into the blackness.

“Help with your bags, sir?”

I look up. The voice is coming from a 6’4” 300-pound teddy bear dressed all in dark blue. He’s walking toward me, pulling behind him a luggage cart the size of a small flatbed trailer. I look at our luggage. I look at his flatbed. My mom’s husband is long gone.

“Let’s load ‘em up!” I say like he’s now my best friend. Which he is.

We roll through the massive revolving door and I turn toward that bloated snake. “Uh-uh,” he says quietly. “This way.”

I don’t know where this way goes but I tend not to say no to 300-pound bears.

This way leads far away from that snaking line, down to the far end of the floor and a row of check-in kiosks being used by exactly zero people. Behind the nearby counter three airline agents are hanging out, nothing to do but chat and sip coffee and hope nobody comes by to check in.

Did I say teddy bear? I meant angel.

Our 300-pound angel takes our passports and confirmation papers and taps his way through an automated check-in process that would have taken me until 2017 to figure out.

Did I say angel?

I hand the God of the Airport two carts’ worth of cash, shake his hand and wish him a happy new year. He smiles like he just put one over on me.

At the check-in counter our woman does her job in between sips of coffee and glances at her smartphone (facebook). Next to her a guy in blue slacks, a white dress shirt and no undershirt attaches long white stickers with codes for three airports to our ten bags and boxes. I get a weird shiver with every piece he launches onto the conveyor belt.

“You’re all set,” the woman sings as she hands us fifteen boarding passes.

I inhale a bit of her enthusiasm. For a guy who’s been awake for twenty-four hours and has another twenty-four to go, I feel pretty good. All checked in, bags on the way and plenty of time to get through security. Even the kids are doing great. Smooth sailing, at least for the immediate future.

“I’m hungry,” my daughter says.

 INTERMISSION 

For those not up to speed, my four-year-old daughter requires a walker to get around. Someday, we firmly believe, she will walk on her own like any other kid. Until then she’s got that walker and, thanks to the generosity of a college friend, her Jeep for when she runs out of steam.

When we fly we don’t check her walker and stroller with the rest of our luggage. We hold onto them; roll right up to the gate and all the way to the end of the jetway, three steps from the door of the plane. Only then do we fold our two contraptions up and lean them against the wall. And that’s that. When we step off the plane however many hours later there they are again.

On occasion we have to wait for them, but never more than a minute or two…

 PART TWO 

7:25amI show the 20-year-old TSA guard boy all fifteen of our boarding passes. Not because I think he needs to see them all. I’m just trying to garner some sympathy so maybe he’ll point us toward some special express lane.

“Kind of flying all over the place, huh?” he says. His smile doesn’t contain any malice but I do sense a bit of derision. No matter how lowly a person’s position, the chance to laugh at someone will come along eventually. For this kid the chance probably comes along a lot.

“Yeah, this is going to be interesting” I say. And I pat my closest child on the head… and let out a long, exaggerated breath… and I wait...

“All right, have a nice flight. Flights, I mean.”

Punk. “Yeah, thanks.” And I turn away.

“Wait, excuse me,” he says.

And I turn back. Express lane here we come!

“Is that water?” He points to the plastic bottle in the tray of my daughter’s Jeep.

Crap. Are we really not allowed to take water on these short little shuttle flights? Seriously, if someone is going to go through the trouble and risk of blowing up a plane do you think they’re going to pick a puddle jumper to Raleigh-Durham?

I motion to the mass of people on line ahead of us. “We’ll drain them before we get to the front.” I pull two more waters from under the Jeep and hand them to my boys.

“They might let you bring them through,” he says. “At least one should be all right.”

I study the kid’s face. I don’t know if he’s being nice or if he’s messing with me. Either way I want to remember him.

The large female TSA agent at the front of the line wasn’t messing with anyone. “Toss that,” she tells me, pointing to my water then to the trash can over by the wall.

“Can we take just one, for all three kids?”

She doesn’t even look at me this time, she just jabs another finger at the can.

Saying TSA agents can be callous is no newsflash. (Note: I’ve come across plenty of nice ones. At least two.) But they’ve always been accommodating when they see I have to help my daughter walk through the metal detector.
 
Their decisions on dealing with her wheels have been less consistent. Today I have to fold up her walker and send it through the X-ray machine. They want me to put her Jeep through too, but even folded up it’s too big.

Solution, TSA Style: Make me and my daughter stand off to the side, along with my younger son just for the hell of it, while they temporarily confiscate the Jeep. They check it for explosives residue by wiping it down with those little acne cleansing pads which they analyze, one by one, in a machine that may or may not be plugged in. Then they push the Jeep aside and proceed to wave eighteen more people through the metal detector gate and right past us.
 
I think they forgot we were there. I remind one of them that we are, and that person has someone with medical gloves come over with more acne pads. She wipes our six hands with them and throws them directly into the trash. Another guy comes over to tell us to go get our stinkin’ Jeep out of the way.

They never wiped my wife or my older son for traces of acetylene or C-4. Is there some federal regulation that prohibits checking (ahem, profiling) entire families?
Rule 405.3.8(b)(7)(t): TSA agents, in the interests of guarding against hurting people’s feelings, including those suspected of ties to terror organizations and/or the Libertarian Party, must not subject to reasonable examination more than sixty percent of any one family, and within such family agents are to examine no more than one person old enough to assemble a pipe bomb and no fewer than two children too young to even hide a booger.

8:55am  At home I don’t like my kids drinking soda because of all the sugar. On a plane I don’t like them drinking soda because of all the throwing up. I can smell the stench just looking at my four-year-old chugging a can of Coke in her seat.

“Sorry guys, it’s still morning. Have apple juice. Or orange.” (Awwwww, Daaaad!…)

My wife is seated next to our daughter. The boys are right behind them, playing rather ominously with their barf bags. I’m across the aisle, next to a woman who seems about to die from a recurring state of disinterest until, half an hour into the flight, I open my mouth.

I wish I could remember what I said so I could make sure I never say it again. Because this woman who was just a second ago about ready to dissolve right into the seat cushion is suddenly alive and all irritated about her job and her mandatory meetings and the twin evils known as United Airlines and the Raleigh-Durham Airport.

“Nothing is ever on time with these people,” she says. “Ever.”

9:40am  My friendly armrest partner is now talking in intermittent fragments about her plans to visit Italy with her daughter. I’m checking the time and glancing out the window, hoping that’s North Carolina down there.

A click and a static buzz and the captain comes over the PA.

“We’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes, folks, which means we should be pulling up to our gate right about ten o’clock …”

Which gives us ten minutes to get off this plane and onto our next one.

There are 29 rows on the plane. We’re in Rows 27 and 28. In front of us then are 26 rows times four people who will no doubt pop up out of their seats and clog the aisle as soon as Captain Ten O’Clock turns off the seat belt sign. Why are people so eager to stand in a cramped aisle when they know – they know – they aren’t going anywhere?

I grab our back-of-the-bus flight attendant. (Not literally of course, this was back before Trump’s inauguration when such things were still unacceptable.) I tell her quietly about our predicament and ask if it would be possible to let us slip off the plane first – or at least not 105th to 109th out of 116.
 
She says she’ll see what she can do.

By the time she’s buckled in for our descent, up there at the front of the plane, facing all those people dying to clog the aisle, it’s clear she will be doing nothing.

10:04am  Captain Inchalong dings off the seat belt sign and a hundred and eleven people jump up like the plane is on fire – which I wish it was. We’d get off the plane a lot faster.

Walker and Jeep are noticeably not there when we step off the plane. “Maybe up at the gate,” I tell the wife. I don't think so, I just want to move everyone closer to our connecting gate which, it turns out, is thirty seconds away for someone herding a family through a crowd of people who won't move because they're all staring at their phones. I leave my family at our new gate and tear back to the first one - eight-seconds running full-speed through a crowd of startled people.

Outside in the light drizzle Larry LuggageHandler is walking back and forth, hauling our wheels and two other people’s strollers to the bottom of the metal stairs leading up to the jetway. I try to open the door and yell out to him “Just put the walker and the Jeep on that plane over there!” It would save him a bit of effort.

Apparently that type of thing is against United’s “Let the Parents Sweat it Out” policy.

I shouldn’t say that. The two women checking us in for our second flight are wonderful. They even let my wife and kids board as I run back and forth (twice) to get our walker and then our Jeep, thus ensuring that at least 80% of us will be getting to Washington Dulles on time.

11:00am  We’re flying over Virginia. I hope. The kids didn’t put up any real stink about the juice thing on the first flight, but they’d been so good for the six hours they’d been up (five and a half for Little Miss Oatmeal) and I didn’t want to risk ruining it so I caved to their pleadings for a round of Cokes.

The wife is over there dozing off. I don’t understand. She’ll lie awake all night worrying about whether the kids need to bring spoons to school for lunch yet she can sleep in the middle of this ongoing catastrophe in the making? Doesn’t she know we still have another connection to make? At Dulles no less, which, according to the woman next to me (related to the woman next to me on the first flight I reckon), is the Worst. Airport. Ever.

I hope I sit next to a Japanese woman on the flight to Tokyo. Their negativity is so much nicer to listen to.

11:40am – That flight to Tokyo is scheduled to depart from Gate C28. At least it was when we got our fifteen boarding passes and parted ways with our Newark Airport teddy bear angel god. I’m looking out the window as Captain SpeedLimit taxis around in the rain.

Terminal C! For the love of God, PARK IN TERMINAL C!

Or Terminal D, which is in the same long skinny building. Parking at Terminal A or B would mean we have to ride across the tarmac in an amphibious-looking monster truck whose eight wheels are bigger than the plane’s.

We’re in the second-to-last row again (though the kids are on the right side of the aisle so that’s exciting). I don’t even bother grabbing the flight attendant. If worse comes to worst and we pull up to Terminal B I’ll push the family out the jetway door and down the metal steps so we can intercept the guy with our walker and Jeep and make a run for it across to Terminal C.

Though that probably goes against another United “policy”.

12:00 noon, in the lounge outside Gate C28 – My kids are going bananas in anticipation of our flight home to Japan: thirteen hours of unmitigated in-flight entertainment and Cokes as far as they are concerned. My wife is watching them from one of the four seats she’s commandeered for us. She looks well-rested. I’m good with that.

We’ve got thirty minutes till boarding. I still can’t believe we made it. I look at my family, so comfortable and care-free in the moment. I’m happy for them. I’m happy for me, though the morning has gone well in spite of me, not because.

Well maybe I did keep one or more of my kids from throwing up.

Of course we’re still a long way from Tokyo, where we’ll pick up our luggage (I hope) and hop into our van for the four-hour trip to my wife’s parents’ home in Fukushima.

If there’s Yuengling on the plane my wife’s driving.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Back-Flipping My Way Overseas - Part1

Tokyo to New Jersey

"Dating Service here I come!"

Being left-handed in the United States doesn't come with a whole lot of perks. You can't play shortstop. The spatulas are backwards. You have to learn the guitar upside down. And damn those half desktops in college! My left arm muscles are still quivering, and I didn't even take many notes.

In Japan, however, being a leftie is like having a famous parent; everyone likes you for it even though you had nothing to do with it. Rare is the dinner party where someone doesn’t comment on my left-handedness as if it were some kind of achievement. "You are left-handed! Ooh, GREAT!" Their admiration is so genuinely contrived you'd think I was doing something truly amazing. Like using chopsticks, or eating raw fish.

"Yes, hidari-kiki," I say, raising their laughter to authenticity level and eliciting cries of "Joh-zu! Great Japanese! Jooooh-zu!"

Then I tell them I text with my right hand and they go completely bananas.

Hidari-kiki is the general term for left-handedness, though some will use the term ‘southpaw’. It was funny to hear it the first few times – ‘sow-sue-po-a’they say – but then the novelty wore off and I figured I should start contributing to the conversation.

“Do you know where the term southpaw comes from?” I’d ask.

Baseball might be Japan’s national pastime, but understanding its terms is not.


Another bonus for us lefties in Japan is that books and magazines are often the opposite of books in the West; our back cover is their front cover and our last page is their first. So we lefties get to start from the front when we're standing in the 7-11 flipping through an adult manga.

United Airlines should consider this for their in-flight magazine Hemispheres – for their service to and from Japan at least. And for any flight with a leftie on it. Until then I am relegated to flipping backwards through the pages and ridiculing the process (which really has nothing to do with direction but anyway here we are).

A Leftie's View of Things
 
The back cover of the December 2016 issue of Hemispheres features an ad for Tissot watches. It’s time for Christmas magic reads the catch phrase that is supposed to compel me to buy a PowerMatic 80. More subliminally, the two watches featured, his and hers PM-80s photoshopped onto two red Christmas balls, seem meant to hypnotize me into buying one for myself and one for my significant other – as if that would be magical for me and not Tissot’s shareholders.

My apologies to Tissot (slogan: “It’s your time”) but United has already socked me with five plane tickets’ worth of Christmas magic.

So I start flipping backwards thru my Hemispheres, and my thumb stops on the fold-out map of United’s worldwide flights like it was a Playboy centerfold. (I mean, I imagine that’s what it’s like. Based on, you know, secondhand hearsay.) Facing this fold-out is an ad featuring Jeanne Huyhn, a beautiful woman with enchanting dark brown eyes, perfect cinnamon skin and a creamy white smile – none of which reminds me of a Playboy magazine since, again, I’ve never seen one.


Miss (I hope) Huyhn traveled from Hong Kong to a place (or maybe a compound) in Texas called The Woodlands, to have a bit of cosmetic dentistry done courtesy of Guy Smiley, DDS. “There was no distance I wouldn’t have gone to have the perfect smile,” she says.

Wow. Meanwhile I’m over here thinking I’m some kind of Navy Seal of dental hygiene for flossing once a month.

And Ms. (forget it, she’s out of my league) Huyhn likely won’t stop there. Her next presumable port of perfection is going to be the door of top global matchmaker Kelleher International (Hemispheres pg.31). Because there’s probably no distance she won’t go to change her last name, which everyone mispronounces and no one can spell.

So over there on United’s fold-out map of the world, three hundred or so arcing blue lines show all the routes United flies. The USA is placed in the middle of the map to (a) take a subtle geopolitical jab by slicing Russia and China in half, and (b) make sure none of those arcing blue lines goes shooting off the edge of the page, thereby creating a subtle psychological sedative for any passengers with a Bermuda Triangle complex.

The International Date Line (not to be confused with the International Dateline that Miss soon-to-be
Not-Huyhn is heading for) is clearly visible to the left, and clearly shows at least one place where the person out there drawing this line must have gotten seasick. To be fair, there are around four trillion Pacific islands – with most scheduled to disappear by 2090 – so it’s impossible to run a straight line through them all without angering a few large men in grass skirts. But down around Western Samoa the line is so wacked you’d think the Republican Party had been gerrymandering the ocean.

Seriously, is Apia such a bastion of liberalism that it had to be cordoned off like this?

Flipping Aloha
 
My next thumb flip brings me to a 20-page insert on Hawaii called DOSSIER (from the French J'dossier meaning "I am more important than anything.") Inside are plenty of neato infographics and high-falutin ads; spotlights on influential people and touristic places; and an indigestible smorgasbord of information on Hawaii’s developing industries: environmental research, niche technologies and (strangely) urban air masks.

Things are looking up there in the US’s #1 healthiest state according to the United Health Foundation. (This despite the fact that “more than 7 million cans of SPAM are sold in Hawaii on an annual basis.”) And really, can you beat the weather there? I love snow, but sand feels a lot nicer on your feet so I’d consider making the trade just for that. But the Out of Office bit near the back of this self-important info-insert was what got me.

Waimea Canyon is 14 miles long and 3,000 feet deep and looks like the Grand Canyon’s brother. The Molokai Sea Cliffs, at 3,500 feet high, are the world’s tallest. And the UNESCO World Heritage Hawaii Volcanoes National Park includes tropical rainforest, arid desert and one of the world’s most active volcanoes, spitting out enough lava to resurface a two-lane road twenty miles long every day.

If I'd thought of it in the first place there'd be no need to rethink..
Add to this the world’s tallest mountain (if you include the part that’s underwater) and I have to wonder why I didn’t apply to the University of Hawaii which, as evidenced from their one-page ad, only admits high school graduates who have been to Dr. Smiley.

A flip back to the front of this Hawaii-mercial brings me to a page of Tips for when your flight is delayed or canceled. This reminds me of what I said to our last babysitter.

“Here’s what to do in case we never come back.”

Flipping Doctors and Rich Folks
 
The next flip of my thumb gets me a special little promotion for (1) the top doctors in America, (2) the best doctors in New York, and (3) the best plastic Surgeons in America. Along the right margin of each of the three pages are names and contact info for doctors in a variety of fields. The three doctors featured, though, are all plastic surgeons.

Seems United is changing its business strategy. Forget on-time performance or customer satisfaction, between Dr. Smiley and these three plastic surgeons United is evidently aiming instead for the most attractive passengers in the sky.

Flip Four gets me an invitation to Reynolds Lake Oconee, a hoity-toity lake and golf community somewhere in Noplace, Georgia where a few ridiculously huge homes sit set back from a vast blue lake. Perfect lawns, impeccable landscaping, boats moored to the docks, thick forest keeping the rest of the world out – and not a hint of a living creature anywhere. The place is literally deserted, it looks like a Twilight Zone episode.

Your perfect lake house is waiting to happen, the people from Reynolds tell us.

Reynolds is waiting for someone to happen upon their lake houses is more like it.

Three Flipping Days
 
I’m done with the thumb-flipping. But I’m far from done with this magazine. Because United is persisting with its “Three Perfect Days” feature article series. United has been deprecating themselves with these pieces for at least as long as Sarah the Brave made it through her Three Harrowing Days in the rugged wilds of Sonoma, California. I blame my incurable travel-itis for not being able to resist these melodramatic narratives, all written by people trying to make their cab ride sound like a trip on the space shuttle. I don’t even like the idea of the series. Three perfect days according to whom? These articles seem to be written for the kind of people who try not to get their hands wet when they have to wash the dishes. There’s never any sense of unpredictability. And they never let loose, they never talk about doing anything unprintable.

Wait a minute…

Pampered in paradise. Or dead in the water.
This issue’s Three Perfect Days takes place in the Florida Keys. The teaser on the cover shows a photo of a row of lounge chairs on a beach, their front legs in the water. At the far end someone is lying on a lounge chair that has all four of its legs in the water. Bent over this lounging (or passed out) specimen is a massage therapist (or an EMT giving them CPR). The one-line extract from the article, floating in a very un-Florida-like gray sky, reads “I get the sense we’re following the perspective line in a painting of the sea.”

Look, Jules Verne, the only line in a painting of the sea is called the horizon. Get back in your space shuttle and go home.

Yet I remain intrigued. Probably because it’s December and the Florida Keys sound pretty damn good about now. And I know my wife will never agree to Hawaii. She likes hibernating too much.
 
“Jackie” gets her article off to a good start, talking about a place where “chickens walk the streets, the lobsters are striped, and people eat meat out of conch shells.” For this I can forgive her for using that trite sun-bleached archipelago bit. Further on she creates a great visual of a gentleman by saying he is “wearing an eye-popping Hawaiian shirt that is completely unbuttoned.” This compensates for describing 6:30am as “blearily early” – which isn’t bad but is kind of hard to say.

The space shuttle came into view when Jackie tried to tell us she “dragged her boyfriend here”. But I will be fair and honest and say that I enjoyed her well-written, humorous narrative. As far as I’m concerned, Jacqueline Detwiler has given a much-needed shine to United’s ongoing Three Lackluster Days routine.

Flipping People

The rest of the 122-page December Hemispheres brings a short list of notable content. There are more infographics and numbers about cruise ships, dating and the history of the hamburger. There are short bits on a blind barber in China, a busking bear in Boston and Freddie Mercury fans flocking to Montreux, Switzerland. Matthew McConaughey (the second last name today to fail my computer’s spell-check test) gives an interview about being skinny (for a movie), being chubby (for another movie), being nervous (for every movie) and being a family man (when there was no movie). Mixed in throughout is an inordinate amount of ads for watches – a subliminal tie to that Tips for when your flight is delayed or canceled bit of marketing genius – and two mentions of the one English word I hate more than any other: mixologist.

Look. Dropout. You’re a bartender.
 
"Eat up, Bentley, the little people are paying."
I was about to close the lid on Jacqueline and Matthew and Freddie and Hawaii when I noticed an Aren’t We Smart there’s a new trend emerging where wealthy people (it doesn’t say so but no normal person eats at a place called Per Se), who simply cannot fathom the idea of taking care of their own kids but want to look like they can, get together and reserve private rooms at lavish restaurants so they can have their high-society dinner while the restaurant, according to the formal agreement written up by the high-powered lawyer of the group, has to let these nanny-bred kids run wild.
article under the ostensibly-recurring title of Hemi-IQ. According to this piece of

The kicker is, these people have managed to make these restaurants feed their kids for free.

The Nibble & Squeak dining club redefines the kids’ meal, reads the sub-heading of the article.

I think that’s a misprint. It should read refinances the kids’ meals.

And with that I put away my Hemispheres, slide out of my middle seat, climb over my daughter and head for the back of economy for a complimentary cup of coffee.

Far below the emergency exit window lies the frozen tundra of Alaska, or maybe Canada. Somewhere up ahead the gray New Jersey winter awaits.
 
I think I’ll ask Jacqueline if they need someone to spend Three Perfect Days in Hawaii.