The Road Home Part Three

2-11-9 Wednesday 2250 Newark Time, Alaska Flight 007

In Newark we were stopped at Passport Control. Enayat's ex-wife has a permanent restraining order against him [sometimes in moments of exasperation I understand why, although he wouldn't hurt a fly] and whenever we cross the US border together they pull him aside so they can make sure I'm not the one with the restraining order. I'd forgotten all about this when we made our flight plans. So I wait, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room where I was directed to wait.

Twenty minutes later out comes Enayat talking affably with a now-agreeable agent, and we proceed to baggage claim, baggage re-check in, and security. At Newark they have a remarkable machine which one steps inside while multiple puffs of air are directed against one's body--but don't exit too soon, as I did, or you must go through all over again. I think of this as sort of an all over glaucoma check.

Astonishingly, we arrived in time for the flight to Seatac via Newark.

The flight is scheduled to leave at 1845 and boarded on time. It is delayed because a mechanic spotted a faint discoloration on one of the vanes of one of the engines, and they call Seattle to discuss this. The flight receives permission to proceed, but then there is a wait while they complete the paperwork involved.

This is the difference between Air France and Alaska: at Air France they are friendly but removed, courteous, professional, revealing nothing that the passenger does not need to know. At Alaska the crew are friendly, open, sharing every detail, letting it all hang out. At the end of the flight I thank the crew and commend them for how well they did under difficult circumstances.

An hour late and we begin to taxi. Suddenly they call for a doctor or a nurse. By the time I respond they say they already have help. The plane returns to the gate and a passenger is removed in a wheelchair by EMT's.

We take off at 2100 Newark Time. I've lost track of what time this is in dog years. Alaska concedes to pay for lodging for people missing their connections. We are happy we have no more connections.

By this time we are not just seasoned travelers, we are downright hand-rubbed mesquite barbecue.

We double-up our bathroom visits to limit the inconvenience to the passenger in the aisle. I start to say, "I'm very sorry," and amend it to "I'm mildly sorry." The Israeli's have rubbed off on me.