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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
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Published On: Apr 26, 2006 10:02 PM
Leaving The Only Way I Don't Know How.
Good morning, friends. I'm currently cruising
high above... somewhere... between Kuwait and Germany. I'm flying Lufthansa,
and somehow I ended up in First Class. I may have been in the seats before, but
there's a wide gap between sitting in a First Class section, and actually
getting First Class service.
It's fascinating just contemplating the things there are to eat. Earlier I turned down the caviar and instead went for a pair of small smoked salmon sandwiches, with bread and butter on the side. For dessert I had coconut mango mousse with chocolate sauce and green tea (I'm not making this up, cynical readers).
Beside me are sitting unopened my complementary pajamas and slippers -- I'm not a pj person, and I don't really trust myself at this point to take off my shoes. I can see myself quite easily being kicked out of first class; I've been halfway expecting at any moment for a stewardess's face to contort in anger, and for her to start screaming "You don't belong here!" Deep down, and even not so deep down, I know that it's true.
All of this makes this whole journey home seem even more surreal.
Less than 48 hours ago I was sitting beside the helicopter pad wondering if I would be allowed to get on my transportation -- a Blackhawk, and wondering if I actually wanted to get on that selfsame transportation. Not just fear, although ever since the movie came out I'm sure I'm not the only one who can't help but place the word "Down" after "Blackhawk." Either that or "Bakery." My manifest had listed me with only one ruck and no duffels, when in actuality I had one ruck and three duffels. Nevermind that someone truly believed I weigh 150 pounds when they made up this manifest. Apart from these minor worries, I didn't feel ready to leave, in a lot of ways. The reasons I had stayed longer were not yet resolved, and I felt badly that I could not complete that which I had begun.
My 3 duffels, my ruck and myself were admitted to the Blackhawk, and a kindly "shooter" helped me with my seat belt -- I hadn't exactly had a full night's sleep and the concept of three different male connectors inserting into various orifices on one female connector had me stymied in more ways than one. For taking care of me, I gave him a Red Cross commander's coin (after I gave it to him he also insisted on helping me carry this ridiculous amount of luggage after our stop). The Blackhawk ride was exhilarating and hardly scary at all, although I simply don't like it when a helicopter banks. I should never look straight out the window and see ground. We were not shot down, and I saw many Iraqi's below waving at us in what appeared to be a friendly manner.
After this wild ride from Tikrit to Balad, I spent just shy of 24 hours awaiting a flight to Kuwait. The next morning around 8 am, I was on a C-130 with a dozen other people, plying through the skies toward Camp Doha. We made it, and I recommend you read the other article I'm about to write today to understand just what was special about that flight.
After a sleep-zombie/borderline-heat-casualty day at Doha within which I managed to re-introduce my system to junk food without vomiting and visit my good friend the Oriental rug salesman, we (the departing team from our Balad office and myself) headed to the Kuwait International Airport to start our trip home. And that brings me back to where I started; an unlikely traveler in an unlikely seat -- Number 1A. Trying to decide if it would be worth it to enjoy/suffer through the 9 hours from Germany to Atlanta also in First Class, and whether to upgrade or not.
If only one could upgrade one's self that easily.
It's fascinating just contemplating the things there are to eat. Earlier I turned down the caviar and instead went for a pair of small smoked salmon sandwiches, with bread and butter on the side. For dessert I had coconut mango mousse with chocolate sauce and green tea (I'm not making this up, cynical readers).
Beside me are sitting unopened my complementary pajamas and slippers -- I'm not a pj person, and I don't really trust myself at this point to take off my shoes. I can see myself quite easily being kicked out of first class; I've been halfway expecting at any moment for a stewardess's face to contort in anger, and for her to start screaming "You don't belong here!" Deep down, and even not so deep down, I know that it's true.
All of this makes this whole journey home seem even more surreal.
Less than 48 hours ago I was sitting beside the helicopter pad wondering if I would be allowed to get on my transportation -- a Blackhawk, and wondering if I actually wanted to get on that selfsame transportation. Not just fear, although ever since the movie came out I'm sure I'm not the only one who can't help but place the word "Down" after "Blackhawk." Either that or "Bakery." My manifest had listed me with only one ruck and no duffels, when in actuality I had one ruck and three duffels. Nevermind that someone truly believed I weigh 150 pounds when they made up this manifest. Apart from these minor worries, I didn't feel ready to leave, in a lot of ways. The reasons I had stayed longer were not yet resolved, and I felt badly that I could not complete that which I had begun.
My 3 duffels, my ruck and myself were admitted to the Blackhawk, and a kindly "shooter" helped me with my seat belt -- I hadn't exactly had a full night's sleep and the concept of three different male connectors inserting into various orifices on one female connector had me stymied in more ways than one. For taking care of me, I gave him a Red Cross commander's coin (after I gave it to him he also insisted on helping me carry this ridiculous amount of luggage after our stop). The Blackhawk ride was exhilarating and hardly scary at all, although I simply don't like it when a helicopter banks. I should never look straight out the window and see ground. We were not shot down, and I saw many Iraqi's below waving at us in what appeared to be a friendly manner.
After this wild ride from Tikrit to Balad, I spent just shy of 24 hours awaiting a flight to Kuwait. The next morning around 8 am, I was on a C-130 with a dozen other people, plying through the skies toward Camp Doha. We made it, and I recommend you read the other article I'm about to write today to understand just what was special about that flight.
After a sleep-zombie/borderline-heat-casualty day at Doha within which I managed to re-introduce my system to junk food without vomiting and visit my good friend the Oriental rug salesman, we (the departing team from our Balad office and myself) headed to the Kuwait International Airport to start our trip home. And that brings me back to where I started; an unlikely traveler in an unlikely seat -- Number 1A. Trying to decide if it would be worth it to enjoy/suffer through the 9 hours from Germany to Atlanta also in First Class, and whether to upgrade or not.
If only one could upgrade one's self that easily.
Posted: Sun - July 3, 2005 at 12:05 PM