Suffering from a fear of flying

Being Frank

By Frank Ameduri

Air travel ain't what it used to be. I remember when I took my first flight, I was about 10, and I flew back to L.A. with my grandparents. That summer was all about the two plane rides, and I enjoyed every minute of each of them. As a kid, I'd endure 12 hours in line for one six-minute ride on Space Mountain. Now, if the person in front of me at the supermarket needs a price check, I just stuff my groceries on the candy rack and head for the door.

I recently took a trip to Chicago for a conference. One thing I can always count on when I fly now is a series of gropings and proddings at every stop along the way. Apparently, I fit the 'profile.' I do have something like a beard, and I have dark hair. If you break my name in half it becomes Amed Uri. Whatever the reason, I get to spend a fair amount of time visiting with unhappy people who want to look at my feet. I've taken to wearing slippers when I travel by plane. It looks silly, but it's really comfy, and the inspection process is much expedited.

A while back the airlines introduced "E-tickets." The idea was that you'd get this electronic ticket thing so you could bypass the check-in process. You'd drop your bags at the curb, head for the gate and hop on the plane. Nice. They've added a neato step to the process now, though. They've put a little computer at the check-in desk, and a surly person behind the counter. The surly guy says, "Do you have an electronic ticket?"

"Yes."

"So what are you looking at me for? Step to the computer and make it snappy -- people who know what's going on are waiting on you."

The computer is one of those touch-screen things, and it wants to know all kinds of information you can get by referencing your E-ticket, your driver's license, your birth certificate, your driving record, your DNA and your SAT scores. If you touch the wrong part of the screen at any time the surly guy comes out from behind the counter and makes you take off your slippers in front of the angry line waiting for you to finish.

Then there's the questions. "Have you been in physical contact with your luggage since the time of its purchase? Is there anything banned by the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty in your carry-on luggage? Have you consorted with known terrorists or anyone else in favor of the designated hitter in the last decade?" Does anyone answer 'yes' to any of those questions? No self-respecting terrorist would own up to any of that.

Anyway, the real fun came on the trip home. The SARS virus had just become news the day I flew home. Waiting for my flight out of Chicago I noticed an Asian woman enter the gate for my flight. She was wearing one of those painter's masks that are so popular in Asia -- you know, the paper things that will prevent you from inhaling a Skittle, but that couldn't stop the common cold without divine intervention. She wasn't looking too good. She was coughing and rolling her eyes and moaning. She was being helped along by a tall guy wearing a black cloak and carrying a scythe. I thought about changing my flight, but I couldn't bear the thought of hanging around the airport for another four hours. Two more cups of airport coffee would deplete my grocery budget for the next three weeks.

On the flight the guy sitting in front of me had decided to take full advantage of the cocktail service. I suspect he started with six or seven working brain cells, and it only took him half of the first light beer to impair those beyond redemption. He spent the flight hitting on a flight attendant and then trading barbs with a 17-year-old girl across the aisle. He was loud and obnoxious, but that's not what really bothered the rest of us. What bothered us was the fact that weak beer had convinced him he was witty and charming. Maybe that's my biggest beef with flying these days. You're strapped into tight quarters with a tubefull of people who have only one thing in common with you -- they're heading in the same general direction. If that guy in front of me ever showed up on your lawn, you'd send the dog out after him, but here I was sitting close enough to him to smell his two-day-old Aqua Velva.

Flying won't be good again until they put us in individual, hermetically-sealed compartments equipped with ESPN and that Thousand-finger massage thing they have at cheap motels. Until then, I'm staying home.

Frank Ameduri is not a world traveler.