thoughts whilst high
37,000 ft high.
boarding.
the speed at which the man on the other side of the aisle reclines his seat alarms me. a full throttle send.
you know when your knees buckle on a trampoline? yea.
a full bodily fold.
(layer in some mechanical, back-breaking sound effects and it’ll be as though you’re here with me).
my jaw’s on the floor, in awe and horror. i admire the shamelessness and conviction with which he performs this swift but startling manoeuvre.
as far as inspiring places, planes usually don’t strike me as the top of the list, but here i can’t help but wonder - have i found my idol?
rather disappointingly, however, the glowing halo of confidence (read alternatively as arrogance) that emanates from this man is erased just as quickly as it was birthed.
the slight issue is that we haven’t actually taken off yet, and people are still boarding the plane, so along toddles the beautifully made up air hostess to ask if:
‘sir would be so kind as to restore his seat to the upright position until all passengers have boarded the flight and we have actually taken off and the seatbelt sign (which - because we haven’t moved anywhere yet - hasn’t even been turned on) is then switched off?’
she expresses it so elegantly and gives so much time to this man that even if she were telling me my hair was on fire, i think we’d all personally go out of our way to thank her. but, to my amazement, this man is far from being as bewitched as i am; his response of compliance comes as a mere grunt whilst he reluctantly re-ascends to said ‘upright position’.
as the air hostess trots away with an air that smells suspiciously like how i imagine rainbows to smell, the man catches my eye and jerks his head at me. as if to say, ‘uh, how rather inconvenient and irritating’, to which I, of course, do not respond, but now can’t help but feel as though I am bound to this man. we have a shared experience. i have made an ally(?) on this flight, albeit one with whose actions and sentiments I don’t entirely agree with.
(if I’m honest, I’ve never had the balls to even contemplate the reclining seat feature, purely because i would rather replicate the angles of an isosceles triangle, uncomfortably slumped forward, than inconvenience the person behind me).
but perhaps the winds are changing.
and, i feel that in our exchange of glances, the recliner man and i, an electrifying lock where one acknowledges another human being’s existence, i can’t help but believe that a bolt of his confidence may have shot into me. maybe today is the day i do it.
today is the day i recline.
i already know that this flight will be unlike any other.
this confronting and dare i even say self-revelatory encounter, has distracted me, momentarily, from the much more pressing matter and the primary cause of my concern. which is the increasing delay that seems to be creeping between us and actually getting off the ground.
i’ve never been so significantly delayed, and normally wouldn’t be super fussed, but since i’m alone and vulnerable - stewing in the hot soup of my own thoughts - (and this cabin which is abnormally and uncomfortably warm) i’m now sweating (even more) about having to run through Abu Dhabi airport like a madman trying not to miss my connecting flight. the layover was one hour forty-five (which one might tut and say it was already fairly tight), but now we’re an hour and a half late, and i’ve made a silent pact with recliner man and i’m soaking through my two precautionary jumpers and the row in front of me is arguing about being re-allocated seats, i feel like i’m the incarnation of the word ‘palaver’.
meal one, movie one.
a spiced four bean salad on a fairly succulent chicken breast and puréed carrot mash steams at me from within its little black box and, i’m impressed. almost moved. i’m not sure whether that’s because my breakfast this morning was a squashed banana from the back of a WHSmith employees back pocket, or because earlier i did quite explicitly say that i felt like the incarnation of a palaver, but this metal tray of food promises exactly what i’m in need of. some good old nourishment. napkin tucked in (not really, but it would be fun), headphones on, i feel like the all american dad with a bucket of wings watching the superbowl. except i have metal utensils and i’m watching ari aster’s 2020 film ‘eddington’, undergoing some intellectual stimulation and a bit of a thrill.
i polish off lunch, and the movie (which i highly recommend), from the behind a steaming cup of joe and come to the satisfactory conclusion that meal one and movie one has been a roaring success.
three and a half hours of the first leg left and i’m shocked at how time has just flown by.
an update on recliner man:
he’s nipped to the loo, but bizarrely, for the entire duration of the flight so far, his seat has remained firmly in the ‘upright position’. perhaps the air hostess cast a charm on him after all.
just over two hours left and with each hour, the cabin grows increasingly cold. the two jumpers have now been supported by a blanket and slippers, but i’m fearful it won’t be enough.
meal two + a chaotic disembarkation
stone oven baked pizza was dished out with forty-five minutes to go. brave.
grease-soaked cardboard boxes and a pangaea of mozzarella, half congealed and half still melting somehow?, clinging and burning the roofs of our mouths and fingers. there was more dough than tomato but more cheese than dough which the teenage boy sat beside me was bloody chuffed with, and who also managed to gobble down three boxes worth with sheer delight, remarking:
“Mom. LOOK.
(the mother looks adoringly over at her darling son.)
the CHEESE.”
every. single. time.
the flight had been particularly pleasant until the call came for the preparation to land. i became hyper-aware of the immediate tension that tainted this cold, sterile air. the sharp intake of every single passenger with a connecting flight, taut bellies, white knuckles clutching at boarding passes; memorising gate numbers and mentally limbering up for the sprint through security. ’twas palpable and made the final descent horrifically uncomfortable.
the moment the wheels kissed the ground everyone was up.
genuinely.
we were still moving and yet too many body’s had begun to squirm. the slithering on of backpacks, folding of blankets, a few even had the audacity to open the overhead lockers. the rule follower within me gasped.
this is where i think being a glamourous and generous host or hostess has its shortcomings. despite the pleadings, the pleasantries, the repeated demands over the tannoy system to
‘please sit down whilst we are still moving at quite some speed for your own safety and the safety of your fellow passengers’
ignorance won.
as it always appears to.
the sheer importance of each passenger’s need to catch the next flight clearly trumped that of any regard for general safety. not to mention the fact that we were still captive within a sealed plane, not yet parked up and at the behest of the cabin crew who were all, rather obediently (or perhaps contractually…) still strapped into their own seats.
it was a scramble.
a sweaty one.
the door gasped open and we flooded, spilled, sprinted.
the layover.
not much to say apart from: i made it!
just about.
you know when they’re beginning to close the doors at the gate and you’re running full speed ahead, metal pillbox of smints rattling like a fucking one-man band, whilst also trying to manipulate your face to look sad, deeply apologetic and helpless so that they’ll have pity on you and understand that the whole plane delay saga really wasn’t your fault and that there was simply nothing you could do and you’re just a small cog in a big wheel?
i dare say it’s a valiant attempt to try to encapsulate so much complex sentiment in one facial expression, but the softened anger with which they glared at me tells me that i reckon they got the gist.
leg two.
to my stupefaction, the plane to singapore was eerily empty. rows of vacant seats; either i had managed to beat all the other transfer passengers with my year 9 record breaking 100m dash, or it was just an empty flight. turns out, unsurprisingly, it was the latter.
just a really unbooked, late night flight out of abu dhabi.
fair play.
as i steered toward my seat in this juxtaposingly tranquil atmosphere i had entered, utter bliss and luxury awaited me in the form of two empty seats right at the back.
two plump emirates pillows looking particularly fluffed up, ribboned blankets and the tantalising opportunity to indulge in a full recline.
holy shit.
i said the winds were changing, but i didn’t think this day would actually come.
so naturally, i now type this from my fully reclined seat, swathed in blankets galore, feeling rather smug in my pillowed throne fit for a plump and happy king.
the dinner trolley rattles in the distance, the turbulence is subtle enough to rock me into a daze and i can feel the collagen infused sheet mask that i have plastered onto my face plump my skin to the buoyancy of a newborn baby’s.
dinner, the attempt to sleep and arrival.
i think it’s best to leave fish cookery outside of the aircraft and i’ll leave it at that.
the final four hours were blissful until we hit turbulence and the little boy in front of me vomited.
then it all smelt(?) a bit sour.
the clinical precision of Changi airport was utterly astounding, and I don’t think any doctor has witnessed such an efficient bowel movement of passengers; i barely blinked and i was whisked from the plane into the backseat of my aunties’ new car (which they’re rather excited by!), whisked into a world of Dim Sum, popiah and iced sour plum juice.
they say (who’s they? not entirely sure, but i’ve heard it) that singapore is a land of sterility, safety and soullessness. i guess i’m here to prove to myself that that’s not quite true. well, not the safe part, i’m rather excited by the safe part. but perhaps the soul part.
so here we are.
here i am.
i exist within a multi-cultural epicentre, a hawker centre of stories, narratives, languages, iced-Milo(!!!!) and i’m convinced that the soul here is the richest of tapestries. the greased woks of hawker aunties and uncles, the uncle who yells (with love) at me to wash my hands after clearing my tray, the bus driver who, after watching me repeatedly tap the wrong part of the payment scanner, grunts and points at the right bit.
with a belly full of chai tao kway and a sweat moustache that is becoming part of the permanent furniture of my face, i’m overwhelmed with joy.