I'd Rather Walk...

I hate flying. No I detest it. Which is stronger - hate or detest? I’ll use both for emphasis – I hatefully detest flying.

It’s so bad that I’ve subscribed to Virgin Atlantic’s Fear of Flying programme whereby I get periodic newsletters which address the top ten reasons why people like me would rather walk than fly.

On a flight back home from Johannesburg a couple of years ago the turbulence was so bad that for the first time in my life I got sweaty palms. I’d always heard about that happening to people but never ever thought I could get that anxious.

To top it off, the runway at MMIA was being repaired which meant that international flights were diverted to a shorter runway and for some technical reason, it was best to land with a lighter load. That meant we had to go to Abidjan to drop off passengers and their shopping-filled luggage before landing in Lagos. Which meant my sis and I had to endure three take-offs and landings in one day; from Cape Town to Jo’burg to Abidjan to Lagos. Our nerves were fraught.

As the passengers disembarked in Abidjan my sister looked longingly out of the window and said “they’re so lucky…can’t we get off here?” I reminded her that she’d still have to fly home at some point.

As we waited for the Abidjan passengers’ luggage to be hauled out of the plane we talked about cabin crew and how we could *never* do that job. I said “not for any amount of money.” My sis said “how about for a million dollars a month?” I said I wouldn’t do it because it meant a whole month of flying. She thought about it and said she would. I said “then you don’t really hate flying.”

I felt she should be stripped of her membership of the Rather Walk Club for making that statement. Fly three or four times a week for a whole month for a million dollars? What a sell-out.

Then it was time to take off again. I don’t know which I hate most - taking off, landing or the food.

The turbulence was terrible. I was so afraid.

But not too afraid to notice a very good looking ‘older gentleman’ in the opposite aisle. I pointed him out to my sister. He was definitely my type - tall, slim, mature and there was no ring in sight! He’d spent most of the flight from Jo'burg reading and I thought he was very attractive.

My sis and I tried to figure him out. She said he looked American. And well to do. I pointed out that if he was, at that age he wouldn’t be flying Economy. She pointed out his expensive clothes and watch and said maybe he’s frugal. I pointed out his long legs and said if he could afford it I was sure he’d rather stretch out in Business Class. I said he looked like an intellectual. She said “just because he’s reading?” I said he’s not exactly reading a comic. Then we spent nearly thirty minutes trying to see what he was reading - the Financial Times and a hardback by a Spanish author.

I joked about writing him a note asking him to come over and talk to me, and next thing I knew my sis held a gun to my head and forced me to.
So I scribbled a note on the back of my boarding pass saying “You look like someone who knows a lot about turbulence…could you come over and explain it to me?”

My sister handed him the note and pointed at me. I smiled and tried to look like I really needed someone to explain why the plane was jiggling about.

Mr Mature read my note, smiled and came over. He was American, on his way to Lagos for a conference, and it turned out he was more than just ‘mature’ - he was closer to my mum’s age than I expected. That was very disappointing.

My friend in Glasgow never forgave me for not swapping numbers with him, even when I told her that he was very fatherly about the whole thing. I mean he actually explained what turbulence was all about.

It’s all my sisters fault. If she had gotten off at Abidjan and not stuck around like a sixth toe I might have had better luck.