“I think it is a pity to lose the romantic side of flying and simply to accept it as a common means of transport.” – Amy Johnson – first woman to fly solo from London to Australia
I used to think that air travel was incredibly glamorous.
My dad sometimes had to travel to various far flung nations for science conferences. They were all about toxicology and lectures on organophosphates, which means as much to me now as it did then – nothing at all. I was definitely at the shallow end of the scientific gene pool in our family, and found it hard to follow some conversations at home. Perhaps that’s when my imagination started working overtime to compensate. I digress.
Our life in Surrey seemed terribly pedestrian at the time, consisting mostly of getting ready to go to school, being at school, and getting home (many hours of waiting for the red, 164, double-decker bus) where I then slogged through a couple of hours of homework for school. The idea of boarding a plane and arriving somewhere unknown with the natural stimulation of a new culture, language and people sounded fresh and exotic in the extreme. Perhaps I could waft in like Ingrid Bergman (I watched a lot of films on TV). Perhaps not. Still, it was an attractive picture of escapism to a bigger and, I assumed, better world.
I would beg Dad to bring me back mementoes from the plane which, God bless him, he actually did.
A little BOAC salt and pepper here, a PanAm napkin there; once, an entire food tray (cleaned) with all it’s satisfying indentations and individual boxes in which one of his meals had been served. Order from chaos – right up my street. I was easily pleased back then.
However, time marches on and, having put in a fair few thousand miles over the last several years, I’m sorry to say that such travelling has lost some of its lustre. We recently did four long haul flights: Phoenix to New York, New York to Heathrow, Heathrow to Nairobi and Nairobi to Cape Town within a week. That’s a lot of miles, two hemispheres and a couple of time zones too; a lot.
When it comes to it, it’s not so very different from getting the bus; just more expensive, more time consuming and more hassle. BUT, on the upside, not only do they serve snacks (we never got those on the bus) of varying quality – and this is wildly important for someone with aspirations as a writer – it gives the most fantastic opportunities for people watching.
I wrote about this in December last year so won’t repeat myself. Check it out here. Let me just say, that when you sit next to complete strangers in cramped quarters for many hours, you notice things for good or ill that you wouldn’t have time for during the twenty-three minute journey on the bus. Enough said.
This forced intimacy and the people watching opportunities, were all denied the pioneers of flight: the Wright brothers and company. While Amy Johnson flew down under, and Amelia Earhart flew solo across the Atlantic, their focus was a little different.
‘Everyone has oceans to fly, if they have the heart to do it. Is it reckless? Maybe. But what do dreams know of boundaries?’ So said Amelia. It’s clear that both women thrived on the adrenalin rush of flight and the delight of becoming pioneers in their field.
Both died horribly young following their passion: Amy crashed into the Thames and drowned, aged 37; Amelia disappeared somewhere over the Pacific at age 39, and was declared dead eighteen months later.
For myself, people-watching aside, I’m afraid that both Amy and Amelia would be disappointed to discover that these days, for me, boarding the plane is very much like taking the bus, the coach or the train. It’s primarily a means to an end.
However, it’s wonderful to literally fly above the clouds and into the blue. A change of perspective is definitely healthy in brining a sense of proportion if your head has been overly busy. Sometimes, there’s even the bonus of a spectacular view from the window. Last month we flew in to Seattle; a trip that took us over Greenland and Canada. From my vantage point, several thousand feet up, it looked as though I’d been transported into one of my school geography books as I noted features that I’d annotated in many a school diagram: glaciers, corries or cirques, nunataks, arêtes, U-shaped valleys, hanging valleys, fjords, ridges, moraines and debris. There they were in three glorious dimension; and thy were breath-taking.
I certainly never saw any of those from the boring old 164 bus.
dancingthroughchaos 