Flying high this holiday

PETER BUFFA

Do you know where you are? I don’t. Know where I am that is. Well,

that’s not entirely true. I have some idea where I am. I’m way up

high, about 33,000 feet high, heading back to the biggest apple of

them all, in search of the true meaning of Christmas in midtown

Manhattan.

I like to travel during the holidays because everybody is in a

really good mood and not tense at all, like the folks in the row in

front of me -- two men, one woman and a dog. The dog, the woman and

one of the men are traveling together. The woman caught my eye on the

way to her seat because she had a little dog carrier with a cute

little pug (see “Men in Black”) poking his head out of it, smooshed

nose and all. “Oh, look,” I said, “a cute little pug in a dog

carrier.” The woman smiled at the man seated by the window and

settled into the middle seat, with her husband claiming the aisle.

I was engrossed in yet another Sky Mall magazine, wondering who

buys the $75 brass garden faucets shaped like a duck, when things

grew loud in the row in front of us. It was one of those moments when

you can’t really make out what’s being said, but you can tell it’s

not good.

As bad luck would have it, the man sitting by the window was

severely allergic to animal hair. At first I thought he was being a

cranky old un-Christmasy poop until I saw his face and noticed that

both his eyes and his nose were running like faucets. I haven’t seen

anyone that drippy since Johnny Ray.

The dogfight moved to the call buttons next, with the woman and

the dripping man furiously punching their respective buttons.

When the flight attendant arrived, everyone tried to blurt out

their tale of woe at the same time, except the pug, who just sat and

watched and actually looked pretty bored with the whole thing.

The flight attendant listened carefully to everyone’s story,

expressed empathy in all the right places and then made an

announcement that made no one happy except the dog.

She said the flight was chock full of passengers and every last

seat was taken, so unless someone wanted to switch seats with the

dripping man, everyone would have to stay put.

The dripping man cast a definitive “no” vote on that plan.

The next option discussed was that the flight attendant could find

a secure place for the pugster somewhere else in the cabin, at which

point the woman began to cry. She said she and her husband had

carefully checked the rules on flying dogs and that they and their

pug were entirely within the law.

Mercifully, a man from somewhere behind us stepped up and said he

would be glad to switch seats with Sneezy and would be honored to be

Sparky’s seat mate.

That brought on more discussion, followed by general agreement and

a great deal of rearranging of bodies and carry-on bags, with

everyone patting Sparky, who was still not impressed, on the head as

they passed by.

With order restored, everyone settled into the rhythm of a long

cross-country voyage on a midwinter’s eve. On this day before

Christmas Eve, most of the country is being battered from pillar to

post by snow storms. It may be tough on the fly-over people down

below but from up here, it’s awfully pretty.

The Rockies were showing off shamelessly as we slid by, glistening

in their white ball gowns, and everything in the Great Midsection is

tucked under a blanket of fresh snow. Did you know there’s a town

called French Lick, Indiana? Neither did I. But the Weather Channel

says they got 24 inches of snow in 24 hours -- a new record for

French Lick. Breaking records is nice, but if I was the mayor of

French Lick, I would look into a name change ASAP.

The sun is just about to turn in and the occasional patch of

lights from some unnamed town glows golden against the snow. It was

all very relaxing until the guy in 4C walked the full length of the

aisle, for the second time, slowly, first in one direction then the

other.

Everyone watches everyone else a little more carefully these days,

especially when you’re sharing a small space five miles up going 600

miles an hour.

You hate to say someone looks like a terrorist in this day and

age, but if you called central casting and said, “Send me a

terrorist,” this guy would be at your door in an hour. But the bell

ringer is that he’s wearing a white surgical mask.

We’ve all heard the stories about how airplanes are flying test

tubes for cold and flu bugs, and maybe this guy has a very good

reason, but he just looks bizarre, slowly strolling the aisle, first

one way, then the other, peering out from behind his surgical mask.

I caught the eye of a flight attendant who was trying to squeeze

by the masked stroller for the third time. She smiled at me and

shrugged, as if to say, “Not to worry. If you only knew what we’ve

seen up here.”

So there you have it, the day before the day before the big day,

as seen from way up high. It’s time to bring our seats and tray

tables to the upright position, stow the carry-on’s and get Sparky

back into his carrier.

By the time you read this, Christmas will be another page in the

memory book and at this point, there’s nothing left to say except --

Happy New Year!

I gotta go.