Again flying like a king over the United States of America, and behind me and across the aisle is a man who is coughing and sneezing. To make me feel better his wife is seated across from me with a 2-year-old child that is screaming “papa” like a banshee. I still can’t use my noise cancelling headsets to try make the 2y.o. disappear. We were just at the gate about to push off when she started to howl.
Now the 2y.o. is sleeping in the arms of her sleeping father. “I almost want to take a picture of them being so peaceful,” I tell his wife. “Go ahead,” she encourages me but I tell her that my camera is in the overhead compartment,so tightly packed and the only carry-on, that if I unpack it, I might not find the right combination again.
Now a father is chasing his little issue down the aisle. Running up the aisle in the opposite direction is the mom chasing the same little monster. I think it’s diaper change time.
I’m finding this flight very comical. The cynic in me is enjoying the suffering of those around me. Having children, traveling with children, and watching parents suffer the agonizing stares of the passengers. This is life.
I had just read Time magazine’s issue of “The Unhappy Warrior, Barack Obama ran for President to get the United States out of wars, not into them.
The Syria problem by Michael Crowly. I didn’t read the article but I did see Round Up, When planes go child- free. This is for real. Malaysia Airlines, Air Asia X and Scoot Airlines have plans to set quiet zones in first class and maybe other sectors of the plane.
Not quite free of children. They will still be allowed inside the plane.
The only times I’ve flown in total silence was after we resumed flights after 911.
As we’re waiting to disembark the little terror decides to talk to me. She tells me she’s two. She’s adorable! We talk. She corrects her 4 y.o. sister when she tells me that little terror is 3 y.o. An elderly man almost clobbers her with his carry on baggage. He lets go of his roll-a-board and the handle swings like a guillotine towards her. It misses her. I pick it up and hand it over to him. “Sir, don’t let go of your handle. You almost hit her.” The bastard doesn’t even thank me for lifting his bag off the floor. (Another rude Amer from New York or a Minnesotan).
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