Soaring (aka Flight Jan26)

 

 

 

All smooth, apart from the roadworks on the Ringroad that might have cost $20 alone that stretch. Total cab charge, $71.20; touch over one third of the airfare itself! A couple of ciggies with the lads out the back of Bab's had been a bad move, but what to do? The event needed to be marked. What was left of the bottle of sljivovica was drunk between the three of us, nicely downed by the Rasta man Robbie and Carlo the filmmaker—the latter taking over the studio down the road that had been home for almost seven months. Nice North Indian driver who earned $700-800 weekly behind the wheel: six days x 10-12hrs. Wife was doing a Biz. Admin. Masters, which they hoped would get them PR. (A greedy migration agent wanted $20k. Hopefully Djamal the Eritrean would do it for a third of that when he completes his studies.) A free seat between the big guy African in the middle row toward the tail made things easier. Chap was an unlikely looking Nigerian businessman who had been living in Sing twenty years, with full PR. It made one wonder. Recently George recalled the statistic of one million people at any one time up in the air in our contemporary moment. Many of them nervous campers; how else explain all the runs to the bathroom? Again, it was George who remarked on the matter on his recent LA trip. IT guys like Carlo & Mischa would positively enjoy cloud-surfing. The achievements of engineering, programming, production & maintenance, especially in the case of the best carriers. What a joy Brit. Air must be, first class, say! Beds, the best of food, smiles and pampering such as those who had climbed to the summit deserved. You've earned it, sir. Enjoy. Ayn Rand territory. Then private jets, self-piloted by enthusiasts. Saint-Exupéry territory, Capt. W. E. Johns. A good number had ordered food, releasing seductive aromas. The two young, large gals in front tucked in with the others, two portions over the 7 1/2 hours. (The Nigerian settled for single.) Well, one had saved, what? $45 for the bulkhead legroom; $20++ the grub. Canceled out the cab fare. Months old muesli slice sufficed. (That was The Road, Cormac Mc’s survivor scavenging whatever could be found.) Curbing the intake seemed worthwhile, minor mark of solidarity with the little people, the moochers & proles. The planes flew over the lot of them, regardless. Millions every moment.