writing so Alfonso will still be my friend

'Twas a sunny, rather mild day in Madrid, annnnnd I was opting to head home to the frozen tundra that is currently East Lyme, Connecticut. In theory, I reassured myself, seeing my family and friends and taking peanut butter baths would cancel out the cold factor. I'll let you know after this vacation whether that's true or not... :o) So I bid farewell to our beloved waiters in Casa Poli (an extra tear was shed for Fernande..) and got a free coffee out of them before I hailed a cab and set off for the airport. My flights would follow the normal route I take between Spain and the U.S. of A., the normal route being that it included a stop in good ole London. Which I have grown to like because I know my way through Heathrow airport so well now that I feel like some sort of seasoned traveller with my little laptop bag. For some reason it almost makes me want to throw on a pair of giant sunglasses and carry around a little dog.

Regardless of how dear to my heart British Airways may be, I almost always have to deal with some sort of incident. A few of the examples:
August 2003 - Delayed flight out of JFK, missed flight in London, therefore missed flight in Madrid, arrived to La Coruna without luggage. Luggage seems to have disappeared miraculously into thin air. Airline says luggage has been delivered, Betsey's lack of a) clothing, b) a cheery disposition, and c) basic personal hygiene products suggests otherwise. 5 days later, Betsey goes back to La Coruna airport to fight with the people there. It is discovered, 2 hours later of talking to one person after another, that Betsey's cherished possessions are sitting in an airplane hangar full of cardboard boxes in the middle of the airfield. Why?? You're asking the wrong gal.
September 2003 - Nobody told us that we'd perhaps have a problem with luggage weight when flying within Spain. Since we spent the first month in La Coruna, we brought all of our things there. One month later, I had to get to Sevilla... preferably with all my belongings. Turns out that domestic flights and international flights do not have the same weight allowances and so we're all charged some ungodly sum of money for 'overweight' luggage. Meanwhile, I was petrified of arriving in Sevilla and having no clothing/toothbrush/stuffed bear again, so I packed as much as I could in my carry-on bag. This leads to a very Meet the Parents moment in which I was starring as Greg Focker in the scene where he yells at the flight attendant with the sticks in her hair telling her that she'll have to rip his bag from his kung fu grip. It didn't escalate to me being carted off the plane and interrogated by police, but the flight attendant did try to take it from me. ... I made it fit. So what if I ended up with bra's jammed in my pockets.
January 2004 - After a 3 weeks vacation, I was heading back to Sevilla for semester 2 of the academically easiest year of my life. Yes, that includes kindergarten. Anyway, I got to talking with two American guys who were permanently moving to Spain and I was too busy taking mental notes (just in case I decided to eventually do the same thing) and therefore clearly did not pay attention to where I put my passport and tickets. Needless to say, this became a problem when I tried to board the plane. Said passport and tickets were back in terminal 4, the terminal I had flewn into. I was in terminal 1, trying to board my next plane. They were eventually found by airport security and rushed via golf-cart (with a siren) to me and I made the flight by approximately 30 seconds.
September 2005 - Almost an August 2003 repeat. Delay at JFK --> late arrival in London --> Betsey running through the airport --> arriving 3 minutes late to the gate --> biatch airlines worker yells at Betsey for being late, even though it was not her fault and reinforces Betsey's dislike of British accents --> Betsey misses flight --> Betsey, tired and travel-weary, cries --> eventually Betsey is given a pity voucher for a sandwich in the airport and is put on another flight --> Betsey arrives in Madrid --> turns out Betsey's luggage is still chillin' up in London

However, the one time I was bumped up to first class (December 2003) for the long flight from London to New York remains fresh in my mind and balances out the bad experiences. British Airways had accidentally sold my seat because I was late checking in (due to.. what else.. a flight delay in Madrid)... so I was bumped up. Score! Big, comfy seat. Footrests. Other things that delighted me which I can't seem to remember now. So now, whenever I fly, I have that glimmer of hope for another upgrade. This past Saturday, that glimmer of hope was trampled and thrown down a flight of stairs.

I had the worst seat on the flight. Without a doubt-- my dad even checked it out on some website. My seat was in red, which indicates a 'warning'... aka an undesireable seat. I can't help but wonder if the J in 53J (my seat) is for JIPPED. Why? Well let's see. It's the last row on the plane, which isn't a big deal in itself. However, being in this last row means that my seat does not recline. There is a BARRIER behind it. Therefore, while you're trying to watch Hitch, The 40 Year Old Virgin, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the three movies I chose) your nose is flattened up against the little tv screen attached to the back of the fully reclined seat in front of you. Oompa-loompas become giants, you can see up Johnny Depp's nose, and Will Smith is well, still hot.

In addition to the non-reclining seat, being in the last row also means that you are in the bathroom section of the plane. Yes, your seat has basically the same distinction on the plane as a toilet. This can be convenient if you're somebody who pees a lot or often feels sick while flying. I don't belong to either of these categories. This also not fun if the bathroom to your side, which you can see with your peripheral vision without turning your head, is frequented by a man clearly suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. I was scared to breathe through my mouth at times because I didnt want to pollute my lungs with whatever was well, for lack of a more eloquent way of putting it, coming out of that man digestive tract.

And then, since you are already the least happy person on the flight due to the knots in your back and the acquired knowledge that you didn't want of bathroom patterns of everyone else on the plane, you are the last person off the plane. By the time you get to the door, the pilots and the flight attendants aren't even standing there to say "Have a nice day... Fly with us again." They've already checked in at their hotels and gone out to the bar. You're then the last person in the customs line, the last to get your luggage, etc. So while Ivana Trump (yes, she was on my flight annnnd sitting in a somewhat different section of the plane) is already in her hotel/luxury apartment/NOT in the airport, I was just getting off the plane.

I think that flight home, not to mention it was an HOUR AND A HALF longer than usual, was a kick in the face for them having bumped me up that one time. Like a reminder saying, "hey it happened once... it ain't happenin' ever again."