Over the span of just 30 days, I’ve whittled my belongings down to 40 USPS Flat Rate boxes carefully itemized in a Google Doc. I’ve watched all my furniture walk out the door of my comfortable nest, piece by piece via Facebook Marketplace. My beloved paddleboards have new riders. My Pyrex and whisks, spatulas and forks, cookie sheets and muffin tins have found new homes. My apartment is clean enough to be a surgical theater, a welcome vessel for my nervous energy and sleepless nights. I’m leaving my home of 15 years, my children, my dog, dear friends, my family and moving to Hawaii in the midst of a global pandemic. Day one of the journey to aloha has arrived.
This post is about getting on 3 airplanes after the world flipped upside down. I’ve done all I can to prepare short of donning hospital grade PPE. My backpack contains enough Clorox wipes for the entire plane, a bag of 10 pairs of ninja black latex gloves, hand sanitizer clipped to zippers, 4 face masks, a baseball hat, protective goggles and a change of clothes. Call me paranoid, call it overkill, but I’m flying into the unknown with an invisible foe waiting to strike if my guard is down, or even if it’s up. I’m landing into the arms of 77 year old parents who are in good health, but still solidly in the population of humans this virus likes to eat for breakfast. Not only am I leaving everything I know and love, I’m afraid I’m going to kill my parents. This is scary stuff.
The Burlington airport was an eerie ghost town, virtually empty at 11am on Saturday of a holiday weekend. I’m covered head to toe, cool kid vibe out the window sans the 70’s throwback blue suede Vans on my feet. I need a visual reminder to be right where my feet are. A respected virologist says he caught this thing through his eyeballs. The googles are happening but I’m grateful to hide my puffy red eyes. I fly through check-in after throwing down $230 for extra bags. The website said 3 bags will be $170, but I know if I open my mouth I will cry. Moving on. It’s game time and it’s only money. The masked desk attendants are unusually cheerful. I feel like a freak, but welcome the compliment on my signature “Get Salty” trucker hat. What? You don’t like my goggles?
Security is empty. I am the only human aside from 3 smiling TSA agents eager for something to do. I received valet service and whizzed through despite a sewing machine in my carry-on. I’m routed through long corridors of emptiness, hands sweating under latex, acutely aware of face mask fabric sucked in with every nervous breath. I need to buy water before boarding and am reminded by the kiosk clerk that snacks and beverages won’t be served on the flight. OK, that’s good. Less traffic up and down the aisles. I finally see more people, spaced apart, somber mood, masks in place. There’s no way the flight is full so I’m relieved. After seeing alarming posts on social media of full flights, my faith in the airlines attempts at safety is temporarily restored. This day might be ok.
The loudspeaker announcements speak the new normal chorus of social distancing. There are markers on the carpet – passengers mindful and alert. I’d been advised to choose a window seat to minimize aisle traffic. I hate the window but ok. It’s a 2 and 2 plane with only 1 and 1 sold. Both seats across my aisle were initially full, but flight attendants promptly move the second passenger to her own row. I wipe down every surface I could think of and sit down in a Clorox cloud of lemony fresh disinfection.. I’m sweating, but sticking with the precautionary pandemic travel ninja attire. A little sweat won’t kill me.
My path to Portland is anything but direct. The airline industry has been flattened so I’ve no choice in route. BTV to PDX meant heading across the Mason Dixon line to a land where folks believe in April miracles. Virus? Nah. Over it. The scene in Charlotte made me feel like Dorothy…”Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore.” The airport is packed. People are clumped together round the select open bars, two fisting cheap beer, required masks dangling carelessly off one ear. The mood is jovial. It’s Memorial Day people. Let’s take a lil’ vacay! Horrified, I dart nervously round the clumps of delusional humans. It’s a pandemic video game and I’m a team of one.
The crowd at the gate means a full flight. Six feet apart? NOT a thing. Safety announcements are regular but fall on deaf ears. All carpet marks ignored on the jetway except by me as I shoot furtive glances over my shoulder silently willing the person behind me to stay away. What’s the point though really, when I’m now certain I’ll be sitting on a full plane.
“Please respect social distancing. At American Airlines, your safety is of the utmost importance.”
Really American? You might as well be suggesting we ditch the masks and lick each other. You sold every seat.
I heave my Bernina laden bag into the overhead bin and begin wipe down round two. My row mates have no such routine. I’d normally smile and nod, but my paranoid vibe screams don’t talk to me, plus I’m embarrassed of my goggles. Eyeballs people. Have you not heard? I thought for sure the hands of my neighbors would be frequently sanitized but I see no precautionary evidence….none aside from the required mask.
Way to go Charlotte. You’ve kicked this thing. Good for you. I’m the paranoid Vermonter from the state with the lowest numbers in the nation, but I’m happy for you Charlotte. I listen to the banter from my window prison. “How are you doing?” “I’m great!” Really? REALLY? You’re great? Must be nice. I can barely breathe and my neighbors are great. I have boarded the Twilight Zone.
Next stop DFW. This Texas hub fell on the safety scale somewhere between my two previous stops. I saw one guy in disposable painter’s coveralls and a Muslim traveller in hijab and a face shield. Fast food lines were distanced as with all gate waiters. They’re calling boarding groups and I see a 30 something woman attempting to board without a face mask. Before self scanning her ticket she’s asked, “Do you have your own mask? They are required to board the plane.” She bristles and replies, “Yes, but I have asthma. Do I have to wear it the WHOLE time?” The answer is yes. Clearly annoyed, she hurries not, scans her ticket and glances around seeking validation. She’s asked to step aside behind the desk to allow other passengers to proceed. The desk agents repeat their broken record safety mantra.
“Face masks on all flights are required. Your safety is important to us. If you do not have your own mask, we will be happy to provide you with one.”
The disgruntled asthmatic stands behind the announcer facing out towards an audience of boarding travelers and brazenly sticks out her tongue in taunting, head wagging disapproval of what she clearly perceives as a public scolding. An adult woman with a pre-existing condition making her vulnerable to death if she catches this thing is actually sticking out her tongue. We’re all wearing masks in a wildly uncomfortable, sweaty, inconvenient attempt to keep like her safe and she’s pissed. I wasn’t fast enough to catch her disobedient callous display on camera. She should move to Charlotte for her miracle.
Twelve hours and three airports later I arrive in Portland. I haven’t seen my parents in two years and can’t hug them. In new clothes, different shoes and a clean mask, I load my life into their trunk. There’s no curbside fanfare. A mother can’t hold her raw, travel terrified daughter. The new normal blows, but I’m safely home…..maybe? We can still fly across the United States, but we’re anything but united. “Your safety is….” in your own hands.
