I should have known something was up at the Lufthansa gate at DFW Airport when they mentioned the word "family."
"You wouldn't mind switching seats, would you?" the suspiciously cheerful gate agent asks as I'm about to board my flight back to Istanbul by way of Frankfurt. "We're trying to seat a family together."
Both my original seat and the one being offered were on the aisle, so why would I possibly care? And yet ...
Even while my lips are saying "Sure, no problem," a silent alarm has begun to ring somewhere in the back of my brain. Families, families ... Families often involve children don't they?
I simply wasn't quick enough to ask, "Now, there won't be any screaming babies in this section, will there?" Not that she would have told me. But at least later I could have taken comfort in the fact that I had done everything in my power to save myself.
* * *
Before anyone starts in on me, let me just say right off that I like children. Really. I know this may be hard to believe, coming from someone who has neither kids nor a desire to acquire any in this particular lifetime.
But truly, I am not "anti-child." I am, however, pretty staunchly "anti-child screaming on an airplane." Particularly so, if I'm anywhere on that airplane. And feverently so, if I'm trapped on that airplane for a 10-plus hour intercontintental flight.
Whenever this happens I can't help but feel that some kind of human rights violation is taking place. No, not the human rights of the child; the human rights of me. If there isn't some kind of international law in place covering this, there ought to be.
You can smile tolerantly and deliver a disingenuous "oh, he's fine," to the parent if you want. But I know you hate it as much as I do. It couldn't be more irritating if a mime in a Ronald McDonald costume blowing an air horn walked up and down the aisle and passed out religious pamphlets.
See, that we would complain about. But when a baby three feet away screams for eight hours, the typical response is look away, reach for the in-flight magazine, and spend the next several hours fighting the urge to go hang oneself.
No more, I say. I think we've suffered enough.
* * *
I spot the trouble in Row 25 of Lufthansa Flight 439 as soon as I board the plane. In the middle of the row sits a frazzled looking young woman and three (count 'em, three!) little girls, all I'm guessing to be under the age of 5. The youngest might be 2. Coloring books have already been distributed and are currently in use.
Mom is positioned on the aisle closest to where I'll be sitting, with the three girls on her left. Dad sits across the aisle on the far end of the row. He occasionally looks up from the book he's already pretending to read, waving to the wife and kids across the aisle like he's on the other side of the plexiglas at the San Diego Zoo.
I can already tell that for the duration of the trip mom is pretty much on her own.
Distracted by this potential trouble, I initially fail to notice a second two-year-old seated on another mom's lap three rows back. She's already in her jammies, I'll find out later. This was apparent wishful thinking on her mom's part that jammies would be needed for when the child goes to sleep.But sleep is not on the agenda for Jammy Girl -- nor in anyone in the vicinity -- on this particular flight to Germany.
Meanwhile, the two-year-old in my row already has squirmed out her seat and under her mother's legs before the plane even leaves the gate. The polite German flight attendants gently insist that the child be belted in somewhere before the plane takes off. When Mom tries to corral the little girl and hold her on her lap, the first screaming of the evening begins.
As instructed in the safety video, I turn around in my seat to look for the closest emergency exit. But it's too late.
The girl three feet away continues to squirm and scream as the plane lifts off. I look at my watch. Only nine hours and fifty eight minutes left to go.
* * *
No, of course it's not the kids' fault. I know toddlers cry because they are stuck in a boring and restrictive environment and told they can't move until they reach the next available continent. Who wouldn't be cranky?
And the babies? We're told babies cry because they are tired and/or hungry, but I suspect they just scream because they know they can get away with it. I'm not a certified child-care expert, so please don't quote me.
Listen, I completely understand; half the time I'm on a plane I feel like screaming, too. And that's before I find out that the only in-flight movie features Adam Sandler in drag playing his own twin sister.
But where are all these children going, exactly? I can understand a Disney-bound plane to Orlando, but Dallas to Frankfurt? Is there a giant Weiner World amusment park somewhere in Germany I'm not aware of? Are they all off to an important meeting of 3-year-old investors at the headquarters of Deutsche Bank?I want to grab the parents by the shoulders and demand answers: Why in God's name are you transporting three children under the age of five from Texas to Germany? Why are you doing this to them?
More importantly, why are you doing this to us?
* * *
An hour and a half into the flight, the area around Row 25 already looks like a dysfunctional day care center on the verge of being closed down by the state. Broken crayons and the crumbs of half-eaten cookies are crushed into the carpet. Discarded blankets, pillows, a sippy cup, and miscellaneous toys have been kicked under the seats and into the aisle.
The two-year-old in Row 25 has been emitting blood-curdling wails on about 20-minute intervals. Mom has interpreted each of these screams as a desire for food. If she's right, all I can say is this is one hungry two-year-old.
Of course it's a liquid diet at Mom's Cafe, and there's only one beverage on the menu. In order to breast-feed the child as modestly as possible, mom for about the fourth time now drapes herself with a tent-like contraption, and then, lovingly, shoves the child's head underneath.Dinner!
This doesn't exactly end the screams, but it does seem to muffle them for a few minutes.
There seems to be a lot of kicking and thrashing around during feeding time, but for obvious reasons I don't want to watch too closely what's happening under the Big Top. At the far end of the aisle Dad continues to pretend to read his book, oblivious to the elaborate tent-feeding ritual going on nearby.
Meanwhile, the pajama-clad two-year-old from three rows back has developed a wanderlust that her mother shows no interest in discouraging. She seems particularly fascinated by what's going on behind the curtain leading to business class (hey, who isn't?), along with the drink selections of every passenger seated on the aisle within toddling radius.
When I'm not looking, the little girl wanders by and decides for reasons only she could tell you to reach up and tug on the cocktail napkin at the edge of my tray. I look up just in time to grab my moving glass and prevent Jammy Baby from dumping a gin and tonic on her head.
Lucky for her I had opted for booze and passed on another cup of scalding-hot coffee.
If mom three rows back notices any of this, she's content not to say anything. At least she's not screaming, I'm sure mom is thinking. Apparently for this reason alone she thinks it's best that children be allowed to roam without constraint, like free-range chicken.
True enough, the child is not currently screaming. That, of course, is being saved for the upcoming non-existent bedtime.
* * *
The stereophonic screams of the two-year-olds start somewhere over Nova Scotia and continue all the way to continental Europe. As sleep has become an unobtainable fantasy, I have plenty of time to stare at the back of my seat and contemplate the issue currently confronting me.I realize there are many inconveniences, irritations, and indignities of life that you just have to deal with when you venture out into public. People answering their cell phones in movie theaters, schizophrenic panhandlers, gaseous seatmates on crowded subway cars ... Yes, given the time there's a long list of things I can sit here and bitch about regarding our interaction with the rest of humanity.
But unlike most of these things, I have a solution to this particular problem. I'm not saying I can get the financial backing, or if the idea would withstand a constitutional challenge. But hear me out before you pass judgment.
What the world clearly needs -- more than peace, economic stability, or a cure for the canker sore -- is an adults-only airline. As a working concept, let's call it Air Sanity.
Okay, to fly our airline you don't have to be an actual voting-age adult; it's not like we're inducting people into the army or distributing porn. We can set the age at, say, 14. But anyone under that age is not allowed on board, accompanied or not. If you are a parent and you absolutely, positively must travel with the kids, you can fly any airline on the planet, except this one. Sorry.
The only people screaming on our flights will be drunks and those with above-average personality disorders.
Everything else about our airline is exactly the same as any other: Same crappy food, bad movies, and surly flight attendants. Our seats are still jammed together to challenge your pain threshold, and all departure times are approximate.
But there are no blood-curdling screams. No running in the aisles. No kicking on the backs of chairs for six continuous hours.
No kids.
Is this practice discriminatory? Absolutely. Would it eliminate a large segment of the consumer market? I'm sure that it would.
But Air Sanity would get my money over the Screaming Baby Express for every single booking. I haven't done the marketing research, but I personally would pay a premium for the ticket, and I'm pretty sure I am not alone.
I'm telling you, there is money to be made here. If you are a billionaire looking to invest, call me.
* * *
I've always wondered why it is that when a two-year-old cries out, it comes with such intensity that the immediate reaction of anyone within a 50-foot radius is that a murder is currently in progress. It's not a cry that says "You know what? I'm hungry and/or tired, and this has made me somewhat irritable." To me, crying always sounds more like "Help me! I'm being dropped off at the Manson Family Day Care Center!"Yes, these are the sounds that accompany me, in stereo, all the way to Germany.
Maybe 10 minutes before the plane lands, both screaming two-year-olds finally fall asleep. When the wheels touch down in Frankfurt, I am exhausted and disoriented, like a sleep-deprived guinea pig in an undergrad psych experiment.
Where am I, again? The flight attendant on the intercom is saying something about a flughafen. In my semi-delirious state I deduce that either I've arrived at an airport in Germany or I've suffered some kind of a stroke.
As the plane taxis to the gate I look around my seat, trying to remember where I put that ... you know, that thing that I have to give to the, um, guy in order to get on another plane to go to that ... that place where I need to go. Boarding Pass! Yes, I need my connecting flight boarding pass. Where the hell is it? Come to think of it, where are my shoes? I'll probably need those, too ...
I look again at my watch. The connecting flight to Istanbul will not leave for another four and half hours. My kingdom for an airport nap room.
Meanwhile the father of the family in Row 25 is now standing across the aisle, tucking in his shirtails and hoisting up his pants after an apparent good night's sleep. Mom is folding up the feeding tent, and helping the girls shove the coloring books and belongings into their Little Princess backpacks. Dad puts his hand on his hips and smiles proudly as he looks down at his family. Then he looks up and makes a general announcement.
"I hope you were able to tune us out last night!" he says cheerfully to no one in particular. It seems intended as an excuse, an apology, and a plea for forgiveness all rolled into one. Given that the guy did nothing to help his wife and slept through the whole thing regardless, I'm not about to say anything to alleviate his guilt.
Dad's announcement at first is greeted by complete silence. Finally an elderly woman who had been sitting one row up clears her throat.
"Oh, well ... we have grandchildren," she says.
I'm not exactly sure what that means, and no further explanation is offered. But that's the best response Dad's going to get from this particular group of air travelers.
"We have grandchildren." In other words: Yes, we understand how this works; over the course of 10 hours babies and small children confined in a small area tend to scream. But no, you moron, we were not able to tune it out. And no, we're not particularly happy about it.
I don't think any further market research is really necessary. I leave the plane disoriented, but content in the knowledge that Air Sanity customer list continues to grow.
Interesting idea. You may want to re-think the age of travel, however. Do you really want teenagers to ride? Have you not seen the eye-rolling and theatrics. Your flight would have as much drama as a "Real Housewives" episode! Ok, that would be entertaining.
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