Tuesday, May 15:

Getaway Day! I wake up at 4:30 in the morning and have trouble going back to sleep. A friend of mine from Dallas used to say, when I was in a particularly bouncy mood, "are we going bye-bye on the airplane today?"

When I get up for keeps at 6:30 I begin to lay out my stuff. I am very picky about packing. I count the days on my fingers then, as I put underwear, socks, and shirts on the bed prior to the suitcase I actually say: "Wednesday, what I'm wearing today; then Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday.

Except that, inasmuch as I'm going to be in the same place for three days, I can probably cut down on the number of items. If you're traveling on a campaign swing you need to pack enough for the whole way because you are almost never in the same place for more than a night.

This kind of travel is a piece of cake.

Once, when I was in Jakarta, I called for my laundry to be picked up. I had the bag of laundry next to the door of my hotel room as instructed, but when I get back that night there was a note that my sneakers had not been completely dried before they returned them.

I had left them in the middle of the floor and they were now sitting on the shelf next to the door - gleaming white.

I needed to take the Mullmobile in to get the air conditioner fixed so my plot was to take it down there at about eleven and have them give me a ride to the airport in plenty of time for my 2:05 flight to Atlanta.

I called and asked if that would be possible and I was told that they would give me a ride to the Metro (subway) station.

"That's fine. Take me to the station at Reagan National Airport."

"I don't think we can do that, sir."

I began, at nine o'clock, to practice my rant for once I get there.

I had asked Mullings readers to submit a short testimonial and by 9:30 there were over 200 to read and respond to. I gave up on the responding, thinking I would do it on the plane to Atlanta.

A couple of people wrote asking to be removed from the mailing list. I am putting them down as "leaning against."

The MDofS&P, who was out on an errand, called to ask if I wanted her to pick me up at Land Rover and take me to the airport. I gratefully accepted and drove to the dealership somewhat less prepared for an ugly scene than I would have been had I been given my full rehearsal time.

When I got there the service manager greeted me by name. This is off-putting. On the one hand you LIKE to be greeted by name. It means they know you. It means you ARE somebody.

On the other hand, if the service manager of a car dealership knows you by name, you have had to bring your vehicle in way, way too many times.

There was a saying in the army to the effect that you never wanted the First Sergeant to know your name. It could only lead to no good.

I told them I was off to India and they could keep the Mullmobile until they figured out why the air conditioner was blowing hot air. It might be that it's on backwards. Maybe if I put my hand in front of the grill, cold air would be coming out.

It reminded me of my mother's - everyone's mother's - wail when you left the side door open: "What? Are we heating the entire neighborhood? Con Edison is making enough money. They don't need charity from us. Close the door."

Or, as Samuel Johnson once said, "words to a like effect."

= = =

There is an article in the Washington Post this morning pointing out the fact that more complaints were registered about Delta ticket agents than any other airline. I am unmoved by this because I am flying Business Elite. People flying Business Elite are treated better because we are - Elite.

The MDofS&P drops me off at the airport the requisite hour before flight time and I promise to be careful, have a good trip, and call.

There was a time, when getting to the airport at the last possible second was part of the adventure. Jumping across the opening between the jet bridge and the closing cabin door was like Indiana Jones escaping from - somebody.

I have changed my mind on this. I am much happier getting to the airport in plenty of time so that I don't start a trip full of angst and dripping with sweat.

I get on the "First Class and Medallion" line at the ticket counter, wondering whether I should actually tell the people around me I am flying Business Elite, and work my way to the front. The agent who gets me is the very same agent, Sandra Newcomb, who had done the upgrades a couple of days earlier.

"Whoever did these tickets did very nice work," she said. I agreed.

After a brief visit to the Crown Room to download even more testimonials, I go to the gate and board the plane. At 2:07 pm Eastern Daylight Time, the plane pushes back and the trip begins.

The trip to Atlanta was uneventful if you don't count the glass of wine I spilled on the flight attendant. I had the wine on the outside arm rest and, of course, I knocked it off as she was passing me in the aisle.

I went to the front to ask her if I could pay for the dry cleaning. She, of course, said "No, I just used some club soda and it came right out."

"What," I asked, "do you use if you accidentally spill club soda on yourself?" She, happily, got the joke and I got off the hook.

As we were descending to land in Atlanta the guy across the aisle began tapping his ring on the metal ashtray cover on his arm rest.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

The pilot throttled back on final approach.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

We touched down and the pilot slowed us down to taxi speed.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…TAP.

I finally leaned over and say, "Hey, Xavier Cougat, want to give us a little break here?"

Well, I didn't actually say that, but I did lean over and put my hand on his arm. He hadn't, of course, realized he had been doing it.

One time I was on a flight in a similar circumstance and in the row ahead of me there was a Japanese fellow looking out window moving his lips. As the pilot throttled the engines back, all through the cabin, you could hear the guy quietly singing, in Japanese: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine."

In Atlanta, I took the subway to the international terminal and asked the information lady where the Delta Business Elite lounge was located. She must have been new because she didn't stand up, and bow or anything. She just pointed down one of the hallways.

As I am walking I pass the regular Delta Crown Room. Hah! I can go in there any time I want all the way up to next February.

Then, down the hallway, around a bend, bathed in a golden, shimmering light; with thin, young women in gauzy robes like the Muses waving me toward them is: The Business Elite Lounge.

I … Am … Home!

I was BORN to this.

I glance at the people walking down the hallway around me, trying to see if they measure up; to see if they're good enough; to see if they can enter - The Business Elite Lounge!

Almost all of them, it turns out: can, are, and do.

International lounges differ from the domestic variety largely in the fact that they have food beyond peanuts and Fritos. This one had a little buffet which had modest pizza slices, some kind of dip substance to go with vegetables, some cheese and that sort of thing.

In the real world you would not spend two seconds even thinking about it. In the Business Elite Lounge the line was as long as the visa line at the Indian Embassy.

My flight to Frankfurt was scheduled to leave at 5:30 so at about five I sauntered down to the gate. The plane was an MD-11 which is essentially a DC-10 with two modifications: 1. The name is different. 2. The engines don't fall off.

By the time I get there they are already loading the coach passengers whom I think should be called what they are: Steerage. So, I have to get in line with people who had to sit on blue plastic chairs while they waited.

But, the trip is going well and I am feeling magnanimous. I am amongst my people.

When I get to the cabin door the flight attendants are asking people for their seat number and directing them to the appropriate aisle. I say, maybe - maybe - the merest touch too loudly: "ONE-C!" As I turn to my left to enter the Business Elite Cabin of the airplane, I steel myself against glancing backwards to see the looks of admiration - dare I say it? - awe, even from the people who now realize they had been standing in line with someone who was not sitting in 57-H, but ONE-C!.

I imagine they are getting into their middle seats saying things like,

"You know, the really big ones. They don't make a fuss."

And.

"I'm amazed. He just acted like everyone else. He could have been you or me!"

And.

Well, you get the drift.

I unpack my two books, my DVDs, my personal earphones, my computer, my Palm Pilot; I read the instruction manual for the IN-SEAT-VIDEO unit, settle back and immediately fall asleep.

I am awakened for dinner. And fall asleep again.

I am trying to move my body in the Indian time zone as quickly as possible.

Here's another Tip for Travelers: Don't make a big deal over the fact that your body is out of synch with its location. No one cares that "My body thinks it's three in the morning," or that you have found it is much easier for you going east-to-west or the other way around.

Everyone gets time zoned. Everyone knows YOU'RE time zoned. If you're tired. Take a nap.

The time I went to Jakarta I was constantly amusing to those around me by repeating this joke: "I came across the international date line. My body thinks it's tomorrow."

No, really. Some people DID think that was funny. The first time.

India is seven and a half hours ahead of Washington, DC. That means if it's noon in Washington, then its 7:30 that night in Mombai (which used to be Bombay).

That also means when we land there at 11:30 pm India time, my body will think it's … see what I mean?

No one cares.

To Be Continued

Copyright © 2001 Richard A. Galen