This morning I embark on a short but sweet journey to visit my eldest daughter in Boston, where she attends prep school. I awoke before my alarm at 3:45am and eagerly dressed, took Coco (our adorable new puppy) out to “go potty”, and climbed into the sedan at 4:15am under the cover of darkness. I have a carry-on roller bag with me and a small Longchamps tote containing TSA flight approved liquids and gels in a medium sized zip lock bag, my Kindle and laptop. I am flight ready with my small messenger style Coach purse slung diagonally across my person containing boarding pass, wallet, lip balm and Cinnamon breath strips. I prefer this small purse to the proletariat look of the blue plastic I.D. and boarding pass holders often seen hanging from the necks of orthopedic soled senior citizens in airports around the country. At the airport I check to see if an upgrade to First Class is possible but alas the superior cabin has checked in full according to the friendly and somewhat apologetic Japanese-American ground agent.
At least I have an aisle seat in Economy Plus, one of the sadly valuable perks of my Premier Executive status with United Airlines. Undeterred from enjoying the anticipation of my reunion with my daughter, I make for the Max’s Greek Deli stand, one of the only food stalls open at 5:15am, and patiently wait my turn in line to order a sandwich to eat on the airplane. The rubinesque Philippina woman in hairnet finally turns to me and humorlessly asks for my order. I request a roasted vegetable sandwich. She grunts her agreement and grabs two slices of deli sized rye bread containing cumin seeds. I ask if I might have the sandwich on the whole wheat bread sitting on the shelf above her netted hairline.
“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now.” She replies gruffly.
I am confused. Is she truly only prepared to make me a roasted veg sandwich on the rye bread. I assure myself this cannot be and so I repeat more slowly and clearly, “I would like the roasted vegetable sandwich but instead of putting it on the bread” (I point for emphasis) “I would like it on that other bread instead (pointing again).”
“No mem, we on-elly serve brake-fass now,” she repeats annoyed at my apparent dullness.
“But the whole wheat bread is right above your head, can you please just make it on that?” I try to remain friendly and avoid condescension.
“No mem, we no hab.”
“Yes, you do have it, it’s right there.”
“No mem. No hab.”
I am stumped, perhaps this poor woman is afraid to bend the breakfast bread rule due to strict management instructions to not make any special requests. I try a different tactic, “Would you have a supervisor who might be able to approve the use of the whole wheat bread?” I admit my tone may have become somewhat Kindergarten teacher-esque at this point but not intentionally.
“I em Supervisor. We no hab.” She states emphatically.
“Oh, well if you are the Supervisor,” I try to emphasize the importance of her status, “then I think you must have the authority to make my sandwich on whatever bread you like.”
“No mem. No hab. On-elly brake-fass menu.”
The gentleman behind me rolls his eyes in credulous at the sandwich making bureaucracy and gives me a supportive smile.
I see bagels on the breakfast menu and quickly fire back, “Well then can you please make me the sandwich on a bagel?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz.”
I see the bagels still uncut in a bin on the counter. “But the bagels are still uncut, can’t you cut it in half and then put the vegetables on it plain?”
“No mem, iz say-par-et. Bey-ghelle iz wid cream chiz, no plain.” She gestures to the menu where indeed it does specify “Bagel with Cream Cheese $3.09”.
“Yes, but I would like the bagel without the cream cheese and the roasted vegetables on it. You can charge me for both but just make it without the cream cheese.”
“No mem, no hab.”
I turn to my kind neighbor in line and his support has morphed into obvious displeasure at the length of this futile exchange.
Although I should be furious, oddly I am not. Rather I feel sorry for this woman, so disempowered that she cannot even contemplate swapping bread. I look at her reassuringly, “I think you have the power to do this Nita,” I say reading her name tag. She shakes her head emphatically and gives me one final “No mem, no hab.”
And so I leave the line at Max’s Greek empty handed and somewhat broken hearted at the death of common sense in America, one deli sandwich at a time. I make my way to the gate and queue up for the pre-boarding. After the all important Global Services, 1K, and First Class passengers are boarding from the red carpeted left lane, the gate agent calls the lesser but still somewhat important Premier Executive and Star Alliance Gold passengers through the right lane. I advance roller bag and tote in hand, and hold out my boarding pass to the gate agent, a 40 something African American woman with a high pile of hair so shellacked and ironed that I wonder how close to a candle she can come without serious peril. She looks down at my boarding pass and without eye contact points to the wall and orders me to wait on the side as she says angrily, “I haven’t called Group 1 yet.”
The sting of the reprimand smarts. I hold my ground. “No, but you called Premier Executive,” and resubmit my boarding pass for inspection.
Our glossy haired agent is unphased and again without eye contact commands me to, “Step aside ma’am. You need to combine your items into no more than 2 before you can board the plane.”
She is good. Too good. Indeed my hands-free small messenger style purse technically could be categorized as an item even though it is obviously not offending to the intent of the TSA regulation and a matter of discretion for the airline. How ironic I think, that Nita would not use any discretion to swap my bread yet Ms. Gloss Head is employing the full force of her discretion in order to show me who is boss. I step aside and quickly tuck my mini-purse into my tote and return for a third time to the humorless gate agent. She scans my ticket and I give her the most sweet, light and airy, “Thank you so much dear.”
She did not flinch, not a millimeter, but I like to think that somewhere deep inside her noxious and befumed head, she hurled an unspoken profanity at me.
I boarded the plane and took my aisle seat in Row 6 immediately behind the last row of First Class. I was relieved to see that the aircraft seats in First did not have foot rests nor did they have individual video monitors for personal media entertainment. Although I must admit that when the flight attendant handed out the pre-flight orange juice I did feel just the smallest pang of envy.
My neighbors on the flight would turn out to be a bizarrely tall senior couple traveling to visit their grandchildren. The husband sported a fabulously bushy grey toupee cut abruptly above his ears and that lifted off a good half an inch from the back of his neck. His wife immediately began fishing in the pocket in front of her in search of the Sky Mall magazine. When she could not find it, her husband relinquished his, albeit reluctantly. The next 30 minutes were filled with the joyful cries of the Mrs. followed by a careful explanation of the many wonders of the Perfect Lasagna Pan with inner walls to distribute heat evenly unlike conventional lasagna pans, as well as shout outs for the Star Wars toaster which emblazons your bread with a toasty image of Darth Vader and the Warming Cat Bed with Detachable Hood. Mr. mumbled with feigned interest in response to each of his wife’s delighted supplications but secretly rolled his eyes and focused his attention on his USA Today.
While air travel may not be what it used to, in my experience it does provide plenty of entertainment.
