First-Class Behaviour

(By the way, note the end of the Leslie Street Spit curving out from the upper lefthand corner.)

I have a friend for whom the romance of travelling to far climes died out years ago. While he still enjoys vacationing overseas with his wife, Robert must frequently fly to Hong Kong or Thailand or Mumbai or Rome or Frankfurt or even Wisconsin on business. He has seen all sorts of shenanigans from all sorts of passengers on all lengths of flight in his time. Destinations? Terrific! Travelling? Terrible!

I thought I would share this little tale of the type of nonsense Robert has witnessed. The incident reminded me of a psychology prof’s warning that as we age, we don’t necessarily become better or worse, we simply become more the way we are.

All passengers were aboard the plane bound for Europe, but its takeoff was delayed for an hour. During this lull, an older woman in first class told one of the flight attendants that she had dropped her book.

Normally a dropped book would not present a great deal of trouble, but this woman’s seat was one of those newfangled pods down the side of which a slim object might disappear, never to re-emerge. The flight attendant apologized for the loss. The passenger, a doctor, did not accept the apology, but insisted on having the book retrieved; she was almost finished reading it, she said, and needed to learn its conclusion.

The space into which the book had disappeared was too narrow to insert an arm. Since the plane was still docked, the flight attendant slipped out onto the boarding bridge and returned with a cornbroom. She explained to anyone listening in first class — and they all were — that luckily one of the other personnel had ridden her broom to work that day.

Although the broom handle was narrow enough to reach the book, all it could do was bump against it. How to get some leverage? Away went the flight attendant to the bridge again, hoping for more inspiration. She found it, in the shape of a large white metal crank, used to manoeuver the accordion-canopy should the bridge control equipment malfunction. “We’ve got the pilot’s white cane now,” she smiled. “Let’s see if this will help.” Handing the crank to a co-worker, she picked up the cornbroom so that the two of them could work the implements like a giant pair of chopsticks.

Meanwhile, word had gotten out as to what book the doctor had lost. Since there was still plenty of time to kill, a third flight attendant made an announcement to the entire plane: “If anyone is carrying a copy of Robert Ludlum’s Road to Gandolfo, or has read it, could you please speak to one of the attendants.” This request proved popular, with many passengers offering up copies of one or another of Mr. Ludlum’s 27 novels, or standing ready to explain a plot from memory, but not, alas, of that particular story.

With two servants of the air working together, one with the metal crank and the other with the cornbroom, they were finally able to fish the paperback up through the slot until one of them plucked it out with her fingers. The whole first-class section broke into applause and cheers.

Everyone cheered, that is, except the novel-reading doctor. Grasping the precious rescued reading material, she inquired of the original flight attendant, ”Now, what about the bookmark?”

 

Correspondence Guessing Game

My computer has a boo-boo, and I don’t know where to apply the Mercurochrome happy-face (anybody old enough to remember that stuff?)

Anyways, SIGH. I’ve tried commenting on several people’s blogs over the past couple days, but when I hit the “submit comment” button, they disappear. My techily-inclined partner claims there’s a glitch in the Matrix; I think my comments have fallen through the dryer blackhole to hang out with the singleton socks. Any other guesses would be appreciated (or giggled over).

Meanwhile, here are, to the best of my remembry, the comments I tried to leave. See if you can recognize the one intended for you. (And if work is really slow, check my blogroll to see if you can match each comment to the right entry.)

1. Great visual of “Maypoling”!

2. Looks like it was a lot of fun, and for a good cause! I’m imagining a teeny wooden sparrow perched on the far side of St Francis’s birdbath.

3. I love signs of previous lives too; I prefer getting shivers from them than from subzero temperatures. Interesting repro and photo compare-and-contrast. Does the old photo show a tin roof? Less romantic than the wooden shingles, but a lot quicker to install. I remember in New Zealand seeing artifacts made from corrugated sheet metal, but I think they were more twentieth-century. Did Australia go through a corrugated craze too?

4. Poor little Sparky! It’s amazing — and scary — to read about all the potential problems when they’re that young. I’m glad to know that he and his sisters are getting the remedial help they need.

My latest (or in one case, first) comments on the other blogs in the ‘roll are up to date.

By the way, if you haven’t yet, don’t forget to enter the great Name-and-Genderize-the-Sea-Turtle-Stuffy contest (see March 24 entry)!

The Little Trip That Grew

The tickets are here. Five of them. The best seats. Durufle’s Requiem. At the St-Denis basilica, where most of the French kings are buried. On the final night before we fly back to Ontario.

Five tickets?

Well, my partner was a bit disgruntled over the local photography course offerings. So find a course elsewhere, I said. Some weekend seminar or something, a Saturday workshop in a provincial park maybe.

In no time at all, my partner was examining a web site offering a six-day course  in Tuscany. Yes, the Italian one. Eventually, however, we figured out that we could both go if there was no tuition to pay. I don’t remember how we decided on France instead of Italy, but we did. A week to ten days in Paris sounded like a real treat.

A few days later I was chatting with my friend, the mother of the boy I babysit. I told her about the Paris plans. Certainly, my friend joked, Jack and I would love to go!

Now, Jack is our “almost son”; I’ve been caring for him for five years. He happens to be the best-behaved child in the universe, and we enjoy rewarding his goodness, for instance bringing him on a summer camping trip for the past two years. His mum is warm, funny, unflappable, and can speak French. I consulted with my partner. Sure, she said. We can all share an apartment together. That’d be fun.

My complete son is 25 and francophone, but he’s currently busy with full-time studies. There was one more person, though… I consulted with my partner. Sure, she said. That’d be fun.

I dialed the long-distance number. Hi, Mum, would you be interested in ten days in Paris?

Would she! She’s never been off North American soil.

The tickets are here. I saved my babysitting money and sent the money order myself. My mother and partner, both Pisceans, are each getting a ticket for their birthdays. My Aries friend is getting two.