This commentary is by Walt Amses, who lives in North Calais.
When people say they love traveling, they think they mean it, but I’m sure they don’t. I’m certain they like being different places, but actually getting there? Not a chance, especially if you’re flying, particularly in economy, where, as I’ve suggested before, you’re treated like an inconvenient sack of meat.
I tried to begin this piece as I sat on a runway at Albany (N.Y.) International Airport but there wasn’t room enough for my laptop unless it was standing on end.
But no matter, there’s plenty of room back in the terminal, where we were disgorged when the flight suffered a failure to launch for a variety of incomprehensible reasons, one of which was something amiss with the co-pilot’s shoulder harness. Really.
On the brink of takeoff, after taxiing out onto the runway, we waited 45 minutes for a truck to deliver “a part” but when flying machine AAA didn’t show, the pilot — the one safely fastened — announced we needed to “deplane,” to a chorus of moans worthy of the Delta blues.
During the “delay,” which eventually lasts eight hours, we traverse the terminal with the rest of the losers, placated by a $60 food voucher and a complimentary hotel room in Atlanta, at a time when our long-gone connecting flight will have landed south of the border without us.
Considering the day began well before dawn in a blinding nor’easter, we were pretty wired before getting out of Vermont — which took three hours. But we figured vanquishing travel challenges early in the trip meant smooth sailing from then on. Hysterical, right? The airline demons, of course, had other plans.
Perhaps to quell any disturbances before they begin (see Spirit Air), when a flight is canceled — or “delayed” indefinitely — the disenfranchised immediately queue up for two hours awaiting a momentary audience with two frazzled counter jockeys who’ve been working for 36 hours since the snowstorm canceled every flight the day before. I find them empathy-deprived, but try not to be the next in a line of angry (almost) travelers anxious for their pound of flesh.
I also know that any maladaptive behavior at an airport might land the offending near-passenger on a no-fly list. I stop myself from musing how wonderful that would be and plead my case.
When we of the malfunctioning shoulder harness finally get to Atlanta, we’re immediately struck by how huge the airport is — like two time zones huge, enough to have scattered over 93 million across the globe last year. The baggage carousel is the size of Thunder Road and when we retrieve our single checked bag, it has somehow put on weight.
Like the great herds, we wander a bit, looking for the one exit among hundreds leading to the shuttle area and, since the airport staff is majestically indifferent, we fight with each other regarding whether to pick door No. 1 or door No. 2.
Moving like “Walking Dead” extras, we inadvertently stumble on the shuttle area to find 100 others marooned and three eight-passenger vans. For the first time, we get lucky: Just as we’re mounting the curb, a van emblazoned “Holiday Inn” — where we’re destined to spend the night — pulls up and opens the door right next to us and in we go. After the day we’ve had, this simple stroke of karma feels off-the-charts wonderful.
There’s a long line at the hotel counter. We don’t care. The packaged sandwiches are yellow. We don’t care; we pick bananas. Clorox Central smells like a freshly decontaminated slaughterhouse. We don’t care.
I imagine Temple Grandin around the corner with one of those pneumatic bolts, the last thing a beef cow sees before winding up on a styrofoam tray. I still don’t care. It’s almost midnight and, as we approach the front desk, I’m giddy with the anticipation of sleep.
The desk clerk stares at our voucher for too long. As his lips begin to move, I can’t make out what he’s saying but I know it’s bad. I resist reaching over and covering his mouth with my hand. He grimly speaks words like “wrong” and “hotel” as though we should know you can’t throw a rock in Atlanta without hitting a Holiday Inn.
So, after another van ride, we find ourselves in the right hotel, with another dour staff, specifically reserved for people who don’t want to be there. I can honestly say I don’t remember a single thing about it.
Eventually, as Siri might say: “Arrived.” Our hotel is a block from the Plaza de la Constitucion — better known as the Zocalo, the central plaza of Mexico City and, according to some, the entire country, frequently the site of important cultural and political events.
So when Mexican President Andres Manuel Obrador calls for a political rally ahead of next year’s election, we decided to stroll over and have a look, knowing the opposition will be there as well.
The crowd is colossal, as breathtaking as the city’s altitude, which at 7,400 feet requires several days of acclimation. Although the traffic here is legendary, routinely gridlocked as you’d expect in a metro area with over 22 million residents, nothing prepared us for what we”re seeing. Hundreds of thousands, from every state in the country, inundated the plaza, representing every political party, social justice movement and ideology under the sun.
The plaza is full of people. Streets in every direction are a sea of humanity with giant video screens providing access to the overflow crowd many, many blocks removed from the plaza. Amid the chants, drums, Mariachi music, and extraordinary Indigenous dancing, enveloped by clouds of ritual incense, we’re overwhelmed and awed. Whatever particular river of people we find ourselves in, that’s the way we go, like pieces of driftwood on an outgoing tide.
Political differences aside, we see no animosity toward other people no matter how they roll. Against all odds, we feel pretty safe. In fact, it’s about as safe as we’ve felt since we left Vermont, which seems like months ago.
