On the Plane:

On the plane, I've chosen for myself exit seat 32C for increased leg-room. The flight-attendant reminds me that I have to stow my carry-on before take-off so I grapple the 40lb. bag attempting to raise it over my head and into the already crowded compartment when the two passengers seated directly below offer their assistance rather than be brained by my pink plastic suitcase. With a bit of exaggerated effort and some pantomime exasperation on the part of the surrounding passengers, I take my seat to watch the airplane safety video, replete with Sims-like animation and a bonny Irish accent - a vast improvement, I might add, on the former emotionally handicapped representations of some vague blonde and her chubby child, (circa 1980? but still in-use well after,) which always seemed to me to resemble old Home-Ec videos discussing the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases or like how to make an omelette. The comparative appeal of this video is in fact its cartoon representative: large, lidless and dumb, the character sits and performs the requisite actions while a male Irish voice-over calmly explains the purpose and progression of each consecutive movement and the responsibility of all passengers to attend to him or herself before helping those around you. Safety in simple discreet and self-organized activity. These videos can't help but be pedantic. Like most public advertisements, required by law, there is a bored and mean redundancy to the message that makes attention almost impossible. Not only have you seen these instructions each time before take-off, but I challenge any of you to remember what exactly they are. Something about seat-belts and oxygen masks, but other than that they remain vague and tedious examples of an authority best enjoyed flagrantly ignored. Many passengers read books, adjust the volume on their earbuds, even the fearfully claustrophobic chatting with one's neighbor is preferable to following (and refreshing) what is certainly necessary information should the plane undergo some mechanical failure, lose altitude and careen towards the Atlantic. Perhaps there is even a superstitious aversion to watching these worst-case-scenario safety instructions: if I attend a debriefing on altitude insecurity, I will be fairly encouraging the plane to go down. My own tactic is to pick my nails, scratch a bit and adjust various things around my person, but truly the performance is geared towards petulance and meant more to insist on my own individual choice not to watch: even if it is important, you can't make me watch, and besides, I already know what to do, I've flown many times before. ...But the petulance is not mine alone. There is a veritable proliferation of distemper among the airplane's passengers, and this, not simply isolated to the children on-board. There are perhaps only a few locations where an adult's physical activity is as tightly regulated, her personal belongings and even her right to certain speech as restricted, and where comprehensive submission is legally required, as it is in contemporary airplane travel and maybe prison.

The flight attendants busy themselves with last minute details - checking the security of various overhead compartments; checking that each passenger has in fact locked and secured his and her lap belt - before a deeply tanned blonde with nearly iridescent lipstick straps herself in to the fold-down seat across from mine and demurely lowers her eyes for take-off. As the plane noses itself forward, the acceleration intensifies and the blonde stewardess crosses herself. (Is this the most dangerous part of plane travel?) Never mind. I settle in for what must be my absolutely favorite part of flying.

We're in the air.
3169 mi. to Dublin.