The Romance of Flight
Aug. 22nd, 2009 12:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nezukoI have a confession to make: I have a thing for airplanes. One of my favorite bits of online reading is Salon.com's column "Ask the Pilot" by Patrick Smith. In a recent column he mentioned he didn't think he was much read. In response, I sent him a letter. Strange, I know. I almost never do things like this, but I thought maybe instead of silently, anonymously appreciating his writing, I would tell him. In the writing of the letter, I ended up with a little autobiographical essay about my childhood romance with flying.
Dear Patrick Smith,
You mentioned in a recent column a review which lamented that your articles were hidden in the heaps of political and social commentary at Salon.com. I thought I'd let you know that at least for one reader, you are the reason to read Salon. I found your columns by accident some time ago—I think perhaps a friend linked me to one of them—and was charmed. And informed. And interested in reading more. In fact I stayed up all night one night reading archives, only realizing the lateness of the hour when the birds began to chirp and the sky to lighten.
I added Salon.com to my newsfeed solely for your articles, though I'll admit to reading a few other columns there now as well. But yours is the one I eagerly await, and am always excited to see show up in the list of new articles. Perhaps it is because you make me nostalgic for my own childhood days enamored of airplanes, my longing to grow up to be a pilot.
I was what passed for a "frequent flier" of the elementary school set in the Seventies, as my parents were divorced, living in Grand Rapids, MI and Nashville, TN. Three or four times a year my little sister and I made the round trip flights as unaccompanied minors: Southern from BNA to DTW, then North Central (with its teal logo which my grandfather described as a "ruptured duck") on the DTW to GRR leg. And back. Then the two airlines merged into the blandly patriotic Republic, though the connection in Detroit remained a fixture of the journey. Later, Republic was bought by Northwest Orient, whose connections to Asia called to the wanderlust in my soul.
Sometimes we were routed through Chicago O'Hare instead, with its space-age interior and those black leatherette and gleaming chrome Eames chairs that somehow seemed impossibly elegant—like a step into a future the rest of the world had yet to reach. And of course travel was a time when rules were suspended: hot dogs for breakfast, for these were the days before Cinnabon and Egg McMuffins. Staying up well past bedtime, or getting up before the sun in order to catch a flight. Puzzle books bought to entertain on the journey, and Fresca to drink on the flight, with it's grapefruity tang and exciting fizz.
I adored airports. I loved watching the planes take off and land, and keeping my eyes open for the exotic purple or turquoise or orange Braniffs, and the gleaming silver Americans. I loved watching the flight crews in their uniforms strolling briskly from gate to gate, and dreamed that maybe someday even a girl like me could grow up to be a pilot.
I didn't become a pilot, in fact I've never taken even a single flight lesson, but still the romance of flying and travel is there for me. Even as a seasoned traveler, veteran of monthly coast-to-coast flights for meetings, and long-hauls to London and Tokyo from my current home base at SFO, even when I suffer with the unavailability of a non-stop to Nashville, and grumble about new TSA screenings and tiny, cramped seats that were ample when I was seven but cripple my knees now that I'm grown, I feel a tiny thrill with every flight. I look forward eagerly to the "travel time buffer zone"—an idea I formed as a child, where, while in the air, nothing that happened on the ground counted: no heartache over leaving one parent to be with another, no gloom over parting from a long-distance-lover, no worries about the upcoming job, or wedding, or funeral, could hold sway.
So please know your columns mean much to this traveler and idolizer of pilots and flying. I suspect we are roughly the same age, from your comments about the music that flavored your high school years. I would like to think that if we ever met, we would like one another. I hope you continue to write for many years to come, and that you continue to fly with joy.
Dear Patrick Smith,
You mentioned in a recent column a review which lamented that your articles were hidden in the heaps of political and social commentary at Salon.com. I thought I'd let you know that at least for one reader, you are the reason to read Salon. I found your columns by accident some time ago—I think perhaps a friend linked me to one of them—and was charmed. And informed. And interested in reading more. In fact I stayed up all night one night reading archives, only realizing the lateness of the hour when the birds began to chirp and the sky to lighten.
I added Salon.com to my newsfeed solely for your articles, though I'll admit to reading a few other columns there now as well. But yours is the one I eagerly await, and am always excited to see show up in the list of new articles. Perhaps it is because you make me nostalgic for my own childhood days enamored of airplanes, my longing to grow up to be a pilot.
I was what passed for a "frequent flier" of the elementary school set in the Seventies, as my parents were divorced, living in Grand Rapids, MI and Nashville, TN. Three or four times a year my little sister and I made the round trip flights as unaccompanied minors: Southern from BNA to DTW, then North Central (with its teal logo which my grandfather described as a "ruptured duck") on the DTW to GRR leg. And back. Then the two airlines merged into the blandly patriotic Republic, though the connection in Detroit remained a fixture of the journey. Later, Republic was bought by Northwest Orient, whose connections to Asia called to the wanderlust in my soul.
Sometimes we were routed through Chicago O'Hare instead, with its space-age interior and those black leatherette and gleaming chrome Eames chairs that somehow seemed impossibly elegant—like a step into a future the rest of the world had yet to reach. And of course travel was a time when rules were suspended: hot dogs for breakfast, for these were the days before Cinnabon and Egg McMuffins. Staying up well past bedtime, or getting up before the sun in order to catch a flight. Puzzle books bought to entertain on the journey, and Fresca to drink on the flight, with it's grapefruity tang and exciting fizz.
I adored airports. I loved watching the planes take off and land, and keeping my eyes open for the exotic purple or turquoise or orange Braniffs, and the gleaming silver Americans. I loved watching the flight crews in their uniforms strolling briskly from gate to gate, and dreamed that maybe someday even a girl like me could grow up to be a pilot.
I didn't become a pilot, in fact I've never taken even a single flight lesson, but still the romance of flying and travel is there for me. Even as a seasoned traveler, veteran of monthly coast-to-coast flights for meetings, and long-hauls to London and Tokyo from my current home base at SFO, even when I suffer with the unavailability of a non-stop to Nashville, and grumble about new TSA screenings and tiny, cramped seats that were ample when I was seven but cripple my knees now that I'm grown, I feel a tiny thrill with every flight. I look forward eagerly to the "travel time buffer zone"—an idea I formed as a child, where, while in the air, nothing that happened on the ground counted: no heartache over leaving one parent to be with another, no gloom over parting from a long-distance-lover, no worries about the upcoming job, or wedding, or funeral, could hold sway.
So please know your columns mean much to this traveler and idolizer of pilots and flying. I suspect we are roughly the same age, from your comments about the music that flavored your high school years. I would like to think that if we ever met, we would like one another. I hope you continue to write for many years to come, and that you continue to fly with joy.
