I am sitting here on a black pleather chair, domestic terminal, San Francisco International Airport. I’m surrounded by people from all aspects of life. College kids from Berkeley sitting on the Floor while there is ample seating (maybe they don’t know the seemingly leather chairs are fake leather?), business men and women, players making deals on the phone, mothers and families and their screaming kids. I wonder if there is a serial killer among us. An al-Qaeda operative? Homeland Security put out an “Orange Alert” recently, after all.
Even with all these people and all of their unique stories, I still don’t feel this is an accurate cross-sections of Californian (or American, for that matter) society. Traveling – especially by air – requires a certain amount of capital. More importantly, it requires an actual place to go. An office to work at, a sister or relative to visit, a hotel to stay at (which requires even more capital), so naturally the “have-nots” of our society are excluded from being on this plane with me. Which was just delayed twenty more minutes.
There are more kids around me than I am usually used to seeing. Living as a single guy in his thirties in the single guy capital of the world does not provide me with a lot of opportunity for exposure to children. I am just not used to it! There is a kid, on the filthy SFO floor, writhing around like an epileptic. He’s screaming and his hands and arms (which are sticky from ice cream) are flapping around. He reminds me of a vicious fish that has just been ripped from the comfort and safety of him home in the ocean and thrown onto the floor of a crusty old fishing boat. No, he reminds me of Legion. Legion was a character from the Bible. He was possessed by either demons or Lucifer and cruised around Judea terrorizing the local Jews. He would scream, foam at the mouth, drop to the floor and writhe and shake and have fits until he exhausted himself. A lot like an epileptic. A lot like this kid on the floor. He been there so long, the grime and dirt has attached to the stickiness of the dried ice cream on his arm, creating a thin film of gray filth. It makes me want to wretch.
I have flown at least forty times since 9/11. It crosses my mind once in a while that each moment could be my last, but I’ve never once thought I was really going to die on a plane. It’s sensation – that immediate death feeling -- that most Americans have never felt. The Israelis rely on busses for their primary mode of transportation. It takes a little getting used to, as an American, when busses are often viewed as the transportation method of the poor.
I have just witnessed something I have never witnessed before. Never, ever, ever. I have flown enough miles to get a free trip to the moon using points and I’ve never seen this before. The flight attendant went up to our row and asked everyone if we were comfortable sitting in an exit row and if we were aware of our responsibilities and knew that we had to open the door if the ship went down and what to do the case of an emergency. There’s a really big part of me that while always hoping there isn’t any death or destruction or a crash lading but secretly wants to be put to the ultimate test of rescue and survival. This MD-90 goes down in the Cascades and the pilots are dead. The flight attendants are hysterical and it is up to me and my superior survival skills to get these people to safety. I need you, you and you. Get those old ladies away from the leaking fuel.
You; you look strong. Quick. That dude is pinned down by one of the turbine engines. Get him out from under it because we’ll need his body to eat tonight to keep us alive. And the rest of you, calm the fuck down cause I’m in charge.
So, the thing I just saw I’ve never seen: two people stood up and said no, I do not want to sit in an exit row. I do not want to rescue people. I do not want to open that emergency door and watch the rubber ramp inflate and help people to safety. I am too weak, dumb or lazy to be trusted to follow cartoon instructions printed and inserted in every seat in every row. Please reseat me.
Back to the Israelis. They use busses for everything. When I was there, Sharon called up Israeli Army reservists to help protect settlements and security installations. This was before the pullout that is going on right now. There are two types of busses there; Egged busses which shuttle people and Army between major cities and there are the green city busses that’s like our AC Transit or MUNI. Egged busses have airport-like security. Your have to get your bags x-rayed, you have to walk through a metal detector and there are armed soldiers on every bus. On the green city busses there is no security. Granted, there are cops and soldiers everywhere on the streets, but getting on one of these busses for the first time is kind of terrifying. My mind flashes back to grisly video on CNN of a green, twisted, burned out hulk, still smoldering, mothers, husbands, old women crying hysterically looking for any sign that their loved ones are still alive. Then I stepped on the bus. I felt awful at my next reaction because in American society, everyone is a suspect – not one religious, racial or social class. But an Arab with a backpack steps on the bus and my heart races and I look down, ashamed, but can’t help looking at him, trying to catch a glimpse of nervousness or second thoughts. My stomach is a pit of bile and I wonder if I should pray when it occurs to me that all the Israelis are laughing and talking, not fazed by the Arab. It must be OK. Then I notice the young man with the handgun in a holster on his hip. Everything is going to be OK. I think. Unless he’s crazy too. Fuck it. If I die, I die. It’ll be my big chance to get away from it all. There it is, the bus is moving again. He’s not detonating himself and the crazy guy with the gun hasn’t capped anyone because he’s, well, crazy. It’s ok. My stop is in a few blocks. Fuck it. I’ll get off here. I need the exercise. No. Bush says we can’t let the terrorists win and if I get off this bus the terrorists have won. But, I do need the exercise. Yes, I do. I’ll get off the bus because I want to work out, not because I’m scared. So I stand up and grab my huge Lowe Alpine mountaineering sized backpack and edge my way to the exit when I notice that everyone is staring at me with apprehension and trepidation. It’s me with the huge ass backpack, not the Arab. It’s me that looks like an outsider, not the Arab. It’s me that’s traveling alone, not the Arab. It’s me that’s sweating like a whore in a church, not the Arab. It’s my eyes that are darting around scanning bodies, not the Arab. It’s me that keeps looking at the holstered gun, not the Arab. And it’s me that people are giving plenty of space to, not the Arab.
You see, interesting things happen when traveling, regardless if you’re taking the 38 from 36th to Fillmore or United Flight 580 with service to Portland or an Egged bus from Haifa to Tel Aviv. You just have to get out and explore. And it doesn’t require that much capitol.
Even with all these people and all of their unique stories, I still don’t feel this is an accurate cross-sections of Californian (or American, for that matter) society. Traveling – especially by air – requires a certain amount of capital. More importantly, it requires an actual place to go. An office to work at, a sister or relative to visit, a hotel to stay at (which requires even more capital), so naturally the “have-nots” of our society are excluded from being on this plane with me. Which was just delayed twenty more minutes.
There are more kids around me than I am usually used to seeing. Living as a single guy in his thirties in the single guy capital of the world does not provide me with a lot of opportunity for exposure to children. I am just not used to it! There is a kid, on the filthy SFO floor, writhing around like an epileptic. He’s screaming and his hands and arms (which are sticky from ice cream) are flapping around. He reminds me of a vicious fish that has just been ripped from the comfort and safety of him home in the ocean and thrown onto the floor of a crusty old fishing boat. No, he reminds me of Legion. Legion was a character from the Bible. He was possessed by either demons or Lucifer and cruised around Judea terrorizing the local Jews. He would scream, foam at the mouth, drop to the floor and writhe and shake and have fits until he exhausted himself. A lot like an epileptic. A lot like this kid on the floor. He been there so long, the grime and dirt has attached to the stickiness of the dried ice cream on his arm, creating a thin film of gray filth. It makes me want to wretch.
I have flown at least forty times since 9/11. It crosses my mind once in a while that each moment could be my last, but I’ve never once thought I was really going to die on a plane. It’s sensation – that immediate death feeling -- that most Americans have never felt. The Israelis rely on busses for their primary mode of transportation. It takes a little getting used to, as an American, when busses are often viewed as the transportation method of the poor.
I have just witnessed something I have never witnessed before. Never, ever, ever. I have flown enough miles to get a free trip to the moon using points and I’ve never seen this before. The flight attendant went up to our row and asked everyone if we were comfortable sitting in an exit row and if we were aware of our responsibilities and knew that we had to open the door if the ship went down and what to do the case of an emergency. There’s a really big part of me that while always hoping there isn’t any death or destruction or a crash lading but secretly wants to be put to the ultimate test of rescue and survival. This MD-90 goes down in the Cascades and the pilots are dead. The flight attendants are hysterical and it is up to me and my superior survival skills to get these people to safety. I need you, you and you. Get those old ladies away from the leaking fuel.
You; you look strong. Quick. That dude is pinned down by one of the turbine engines. Get him out from under it because we’ll need his body to eat tonight to keep us alive. And the rest of you, calm the fuck down cause I’m in charge.
So, the thing I just saw I’ve never seen: two people stood up and said no, I do not want to sit in an exit row. I do not want to rescue people. I do not want to open that emergency door and watch the rubber ramp inflate and help people to safety. I am too weak, dumb or lazy to be trusted to follow cartoon instructions printed and inserted in every seat in every row. Please reseat me.
Back to the Israelis. They use busses for everything. When I was there, Sharon called up Israeli Army reservists to help protect settlements and security installations. This was before the pullout that is going on right now. There are two types of busses there; Egged busses which shuttle people and Army between major cities and there are the green city busses that’s like our AC Transit or MUNI. Egged busses have airport-like security. Your have to get your bags x-rayed, you have to walk through a metal detector and there are armed soldiers on every bus. On the green city busses there is no security. Granted, there are cops and soldiers everywhere on the streets, but getting on one of these busses for the first time is kind of terrifying. My mind flashes back to grisly video on CNN of a green, twisted, burned out hulk, still smoldering, mothers, husbands, old women crying hysterically looking for any sign that their loved ones are still alive. Then I stepped on the bus. I felt awful at my next reaction because in American society, everyone is a suspect – not one religious, racial or social class. But an Arab with a backpack steps on the bus and my heart races and I look down, ashamed, but can’t help looking at him, trying to catch a glimpse of nervousness or second thoughts. My stomach is a pit of bile and I wonder if I should pray when it occurs to me that all the Israelis are laughing and talking, not fazed by the Arab. It must be OK. Then I notice the young man with the handgun in a holster on his hip. Everything is going to be OK. I think. Unless he’s crazy too. Fuck it. If I die, I die. It’ll be my big chance to get away from it all. There it is, the bus is moving again. He’s not detonating himself and the crazy guy with the gun hasn’t capped anyone because he’s, well, crazy. It’s ok. My stop is in a few blocks. Fuck it. I’ll get off here. I need the exercise. No. Bush says we can’t let the terrorists win and if I get off this bus the terrorists have won. But, I do need the exercise. Yes, I do. I’ll get off the bus because I want to work out, not because I’m scared. So I stand up and grab my huge Lowe Alpine mountaineering sized backpack and edge my way to the exit when I notice that everyone is staring at me with apprehension and trepidation. It’s me with the huge ass backpack, not the Arab. It’s me that looks like an outsider, not the Arab. It’s me that’s traveling alone, not the Arab. It’s me that’s sweating like a whore in a church, not the Arab. It’s my eyes that are darting around scanning bodies, not the Arab. It’s me that keeps looking at the holstered gun, not the Arab. And it’s me that people are giving plenty of space to, not the Arab.
You see, interesting things happen when traveling, regardless if you’re taking the 38 from 36th to Fillmore or United Flight 580 with service to Portland or an Egged bus from Haifa to Tel Aviv. You just have to get out and explore. And it doesn’t require that much capitol.
