Yesterday, I had to fly to Louisville for a board meeting, just in time for the sequester cuts to start to reach airports. It took me as long to get from LaGuardia to Kentucky as it normally does to get to Merida. First, after we had boarded the plane, we learned that United’s co-pilot overslept or something, so the flight was going to be too late to meet my connection in Cleveland. Off the plane we went and back to the gate, a small basement area that was probably first designed as a holding cell for unruly passengers. An agent rebooked me on Delta, which I found had a brand new and beautifully designed terminal, and now I’m really hoping they resume their direct flights to Mérida from New York City. In the meantime, we have another Mérida trip coming up soon, via United, and I’m actually dreading the travel day.
It makes me think back to how travel has changed since 1974, the first time I flew on a plane.
1974: We leave glamorous (to a 9-year-old) Philadelphia International Airport to fly Delta to Disney World. How do I remember the airline? Because the pilot himself (who arrived on time) took the time to give me a little Delta logo pin to proudly wear on my shirt. Does that even happen anymore? I grew up in my grandmother’s house, which was kind of stuck in 1947, so I definitely remember the mod swivel chairs and burnt orange shag carpeting at