This post is an addendum to my previous entry. In my last blog,
I talked about how I was all soothed and what-will-be-will-be and yadda yadda
when I’m hanging out in airports. My return flight from California is a long
one – I’ll be boarding, waiting, flying, de-boarding or waiting again for
almost 15 hours. And typically I’m totally zen with that. But today I am reminded of the one travel
factor that would rip even a meditating monk from his realm of inner calm. The
screaming baby.
*Please let me preface
this reflection by stating that I am in no way dissing the parents who bring
screaming babies on board. I’m simply expressing my emotional angst; I understand
that you are doing what you need to do, and that you are suffering just as much
as the rest of us. For the sake of stating the obvious, I hold you accountable
for nothing more than bringing this child into the world and onto the flight,
but don’t begrudge you for the pain your child or your fellow passengers are
suffering. Do what you gotta do.
It’s funny because the baby about whom I (along with 108
other passengers) was incredibly wary was inconsolable during the boarding
process. We all stood huddled around the gate eyeing the tiny person with the
massive lungs and thinking the exact same thought – please don’t let them be on my flight. I passed mother and baby in
the front row as I made my way to my own seat, managing to plaster myself
against the back of the plane and (fingers-crossed) out of earshot of the baby.
But the universe has a sick and twisted sense of humor. Like a bad Jackie Chan
movie*, baby number two appeared two rows ahead, trapping me in the corner. (*Like
the bad guys in Snake in the Eagle’s Shadow, the baby popped out of the darkness
(or in this case, 37A), leaving me cornered, panting and with jumping as the
only viable option for finding sanity and peace.) Baby number one has not made
a peep (at least one that I can hear), while baby number two has been shrieking
since I stowed my luggage in the overhead compartment, which may have shifted
during flight.
After about ten minutes, we began to prepare for takeoff and
taxi down the runway. All too optimistically I hoped that the airplane roar and
road noise would a) lull the child or b) drown him out. For a moment, it
worked. At that point I silently prayed that we wouldn’t take off at all, but
instead just keep doing laps around the runway at high speeds. We’re connecting
through Chicago and O’Hare sucks this time of year anyway. But take off we did,
and the thunderous bellow of the jets continued as we climbed above the city. I
was temporarily distracted by the rusty desert mountains jutting out of the
expansive cityscape. WWAAAAAAAAAAH. Oh. Right. The baby was now interspersing
the most bizarre wails into his falsetto discourse. There was the “reeeeeer”’
of a Halloween cat with its tail stuck in a door and then a most peculiar
shrill and panicked gurgling noise, just what I imagine it would sound like if
a sorority girl accidentally swallowed a lizard.
As the knot in my stomach tightened and I could sense even
my earlobes becoming tense at the incessant cries, my heart went out to the
mother. I mean, clearly his cries were heart-wrenching and no syren’s song for
her either; and she seemed quite uncomfortable sitting with the knowledge that
in a tribal council decision of who would be voted off the plane first, there
would be no discussion.
Then. Suddenly, it stopped. My stomach loosened (much to my neighbor’s
chagrin), and my earlobes relaxed. The calmness reminded me of coming home from
China, where toilets on the trains are holes in the floor and you have to squat
and aim. Returning home, I marveled at the shiny marble sinks in restaurant
restrooms, the advanced technology of the automatic flush, and the freakishly
sanitary shiny toilet seats. But then, after about a week, the novelties wore
off and one crapper was the same as the next. I know I sound like a cheesy
movie or a Mitch Albom book, but you really don’t realize what you have until
it’s gone. And thus, the amazing, fabulous, rich silence was taken for granted
after just a few moments of peace. I stared out the window. I started to read
my book. I closed my eyes and went on with the flight.
And now, with this
poor child quite vocally distraught once again, I write this reflection to the
best of my abilities, with sweaty palms, shaky fingers and the fat fringes of
my nervous system rapidly detwizzling themselves. I’m sure there’s a lesson the
universe is trying to teach me here – finding peace within while chaos pursues
without or some bullshit, but I might have to lock myself in the lavatory and
rock myself slowly back into my senses to unearth it.
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