Sylvia's Journal

You never want to sit in the front row of coach class on a Boeing 757 because that’s where all the babies hang out. On the last leg of my journey home I sat about five rows behind the baby-cry-symphony. A little too close but not as bad as the two people without babies who were seated right in the middle of them. They must have done something very bad in an earlier life, or may be the week before. They were surrounded by exhausted Indian families with fidgety babies and toddlers, screaming at the top of their lungs. Their pitches were all slightly different and my neighbor remarked that we better learn to appreciate this particular type music.

The kids were also wriggling like pollywogs, kicking anyone sitting near, with their parents bearing the brunt, but also these two hapless travelers who ended up on each side. The parents looked battered and resigned. They had already travelled on a night flight from New Delhi and had probably given up spending any more mental or physical energy on their offspring for the remainder of the journey.

The flight crew was in a bad mood that showed up in a passive aggressive sort of way, accompanied by barked orders – that included the angry waving of the exit strategy maps in our faces and asking us whether we had any questions. No one dared to ask anything.

Maybe they were annoyed by the babies; or, because it was lousy weather in Holland, they didn’t get to see the tulips in the sun perhaps. Or because of the ways in which people put their hand luggage in the bins – it never ceases to amaze me the stupidity with which this is done. A bag that’s in diagonally is pushed and pushed straight back – of course it doesn’t give and you can see the grey cells not working. For that reason alone I could never be a flight attendant. And while some people are fighting with their bags to make them fit, other people come in with enormous suitcases on rollers and look expectantly up for places to put them. And the flight attendants don’t even bother to hide their exasperation.

But the flights were all full and they may be attending passengers a while longer. The financial crisis must be ending or the prices of tickets have gone so far down that now anyone can afford to travel; all the flights home were filled to the last seat and my neighbors were all too large for their seats, spilling out of theirs into mine. Northwest has cut cost on their beverages services and now also suppressed the tiny pretzel packs at least for the first round. I suppose it adds up to a huge savings worldwide.

Within minutes after landing I was out in the open air, with my hand luggage only – an advantage of the really short trips and of arriving in the middle of the morning when no other long haul flights come in. Axel was waiting for me and whisked me home. I invited him to spend the 75% of yesterday’s Accra per diem on a nice lunch in Gloucester’s Latitude 43. We ordered some spectacular three-dimenisonal Fusion dishes, each a piece of art in its own right, a seaweed salad in shades of lavender, turquoise, light and dark green with a purple sauce.

After lunch we visited the Cape Ann Historical Museum, me for the first time and Axel after a hiatus of 20 years. ‘Shame on you,’ said board member and across-the-cove-neighbor Bill. He showed us a Fitz Hugh Lane painting of particular interest. He explained how it showed the really old Gloucester, before it turned outward to the sea. The house in the picture is being restored now. It used to be on the Annisquam river, inhabited in its original state (i.e. no indoor plumbing) without interruption for over 200 years by the same family until the government took it by eminent domain in the 40s to make way for a road.

We stayed in the museum until it closed as there was much to see. This included a delightful photo exhibit on a year in the life of 1975 Gloucester by Gloucester Times photographer Charlie Lowe.

That was enough activity at the end of a 18 hour trip. A cup of tea, a hot bubble bath, and an early turn-in completed this rather long day. It’s good to be home and back with my man.