The Romance of Air Travel Part XXI

Pan Am meal service 1939

Air travel is not what it once was. Back when only the wealthy could afford it (i.e. my youth), air travel was both glamorous and luxurious. Pilots were lionized (remember "Catch Me if You Can?"), stewardesses were sexy and cool, travelers were pampered, and it was all the cat's pajamas.

How things have changed. Flying is now just another means of transportation, pilots and stewardesses just airline employees, and passengers just cattle to be packed in as tightly as possible with as few amenities as allowed. Well, except for the rich–they have first class, which is still outrageously expensive, and where they are still pampered.

I must add that there are definitely advantages to flying during the Superbowl (besides, of course, getting to miss out on the Superbowl). The airport didn't seem nearly as busy as usual, and my first flight was practically empty. We left on time, I had my row to myself, and there even seemed to be ample leg room. And a personal video system with a touch screen is pretty nice. Jetting to Paris in February is not all bad.

Charles DeGaulle airport is still awful. I had blamed its awfulness during a previous flight on the fact that one of the terminals was under construction. Well, the construction is done and it is still awful. Unlike most cold weather airports, it still has many of its flights land on the tarmac and then buses the passengers in and out. And the terminals are far from each other; since I had an American passport, I was able to enter France, walk to the next terminal, and leave France. Those not carrying American, Canadian or EU passports are to so lucky–they get to take an hour long bus trip between gates (or so I am told). The terminal, while architecturally interesting, has horrible acoustics, and very limited seating at the gates, about 30 or 40 seats. This is a bit of a problem when many flights carry more than a hundred passengers. ( There were, however, lots of shops and kiosks. I apparently have my priorities all screwed up....)

Terminal at CDG Airport

Of course, the best part of CDG was being bussed out to the airplane and then left us, standing literally cheek to cheek in a small space, while some sort of repairs were done to the plane. We weren't sure what the problem was, as an Air France staffer hopped on the bus and explained, in French only, exactly what was wrong. Since the passengers were almost all American and Indian, we were not enlightened in the least. As a fellow passenger said, the Air France motto must surely be "Service is our Business."

The flight to India was not very pleasant either. There was not an empty seat anywhere on the airplane, which was configured with much less leg room than on the earlier flight. When the person in front of me reclined her seat, the seat back was, at most, six inches from my face. I slept for most of the trip, if fitfully, and chatted a bit with my seat mate Madeleine, an American living in Paris and on her way to the ashram in Pondichery (Auroville).

Seeking enlightenment in Auroville

Madras/Chennai was superficially changed (airport facilities newer and cleaner) since my last visit, but was essentially the same (hot, muggy, and huge waits to get through immigration). My line, of course, was the slowest moving, so, when a new one opened up, I grabbed my chance and finally got through. My suitcases had come by then–I'm convinced they make people wait forever in the immigration line so they won't congregated in the luggage area waiting for bags–and I grabbed them, sailed through customs, and left.

A Hindu goddess welcomes me to India

For some reason, all international flights to Europe seem to leave and arrive between midnight and 2 am. The airport was packed, with huge masses of people both deplaning, checking in, and just waiting outside. I found my driver, got in the car, and we drove off to Vellore and into the tropical Indian night.