15. Escape From Paradise

My stay in Purgatory was drawing to a close. After 12 hours in the Tenerife airport flight BA6997 was finally boarding. I dutifully stood in line as we were funneled into a long glass hallway that ended at a security booth where a uniformed official checked our passports. Then we proceeded to the gate agent who scanned our tickets before we made the last journey down the jet-way. I had once again requested seat 21F, the exit row, window seat, (without the window). As it was pitch black outside there was no need to try and catch a last, fleeting glimpse of the snow-covered volcano peeking up through the clouds. I bent down to walk through the hatch. As I entered the plane I saw Jo, the flight attendant who had sat opposite me in the jump seat on the flight down. She was standing in the galley outside the cabin and recognized me as I straightened up.

“Well hello.” We both said. “How was your stay?” She continued.

I blew out an exaggerated breath of air that caused my cheeks to vibrate. “I’ll tell you later.” I answered.
“I’m working up here on the return.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure that Debbie will treat you nicely.”

“It won’t be the same without you Jo.”

We shared a knowing laughed and parted with a smile as I trudged down the aisle toward Steerage; I mean Tourist Class. When I made my way to my row there were a couple of young guys sitting there already; one of whom was in my seat.

“Sorry…I’m in 21F, there.” I said with confidence and just the slightest twang of annoyance as I was way past ready to sit down and take off. To my amazement this “dude” casually looks up at me and says that he has 21F. We go through the ritual of comparing our ticket stubs and sure enough, we have both been assigned seat 21F. Great. What business did I have assuming that my luck was changing just because I was leaving Paradise? I signaled to the nearest flight attendant and showed her my seat assignment. She took the other guy’s stub as well and stood there staring at them as though she was confirming the numbers on a lottery ticket. I plopped down (and I believe in this case plopped is the correct word for how I landed) in the seat across the aisle and waited for someone to sort it out. By now two attendants were huddled together trying to discern what to do. There was much back-and-forth whispering and gesturing. Debbie, the seeming successor to Jo’s throne appeared to be out of her realm. A “senior” crewmember came and took both tickets away to try and solve the problem.

As the plane began filling up I found myself marveling at how at ease I was about all of this. No sense of panic. No nasty scene about airline screw-ups. Just a cool wave of calm that rolled over my body like the cold blast of air that was drilling me from the air conditioning vent above my head. The person that was assigned the seat I was waiting in finally arrived. Before she could object or panic I stood up and said that I had just been keeping her seat warm for her. I was now forced to stand in the aisle as the rest of the passengers began to settle into their seats. Finally the lead attendant came back, holding my ticket and the passenger manifest.

“Mr. Grantham…I’m afraid you’re on the wrong plane.”

Let’s let that sink in for just a moment shall we. It bears repeating.

“Mr. Grantham…I’m afraid you’re on the wrong plane.”

How could that possibly be?

“You’re booked on flight 6999. This is flight 6997.” She handed my ticket stub back as if the act of doing so would miraculously empower me with the understanding of what was going on.

“You’re kidding? You have two flights going to Gatwick airport at the same time?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Your plane is that one over there.” She said as she pointed out the window in the general direction of the night-enveloped tarmac.

I made a half-heartened glance over my shoulder as if I was really trying to see the other plane. I popped open the overhead bin and grabbed my bags. By now all the busybodies in the immediate vicinity were beginning to stare and talk amongst themselves. As I made my way back up the aisle I overheard someone ask, in a not-too-subtle tone,

“How did he get on the plane with the wrong ticket?”

I caught his eyes as I walked past, refusing to take the blame for this foul up. “Makes you wonder about the security procedures doesn’t it.” I said.

As I got to the door Jo stood there almost apologetically. “I’m on the wrong plane I guess. I’ll race you back to London.”
“Have a nice flight.”

I had no sooner stepped through the hatch than they swung it shut behind me. It was just about this time that I began to get a little anxious. Okay…. You let me get on the wrong plane. Where is the right one? Hello? Anybody going to help me out here? Suddenly, the people standing around only spoke Spanish. I increased me pace up the jet-way. As I made it into the waiting area I looked up at the departure sign and, sure enough, there were two different planes going to the same place. Flight 6999 was leaving from Gate 16. It indicated that final boarding had been called. I was at Gate 6. I broke into a run. If I had possessed this much speed and dexterity when I played high school football I would have gotten a scholarship. I weaved. I juked. I felt like vomiting. My head hurt and I thought I was getting a stitch in my side. I hope it’s a stitch and not a stroke. Up ahead I see my gate. What I don’t see is a plane. I’m looking out the windows. There’s a jet-way, but there’s no plane parked at the end of it. I come skidding to a halt just as they call my name for final boarding.

As it turns out, for reasons that were never given and for which I never asked, the plane was parked way out on the tarmac. We had to go down a set of stairs and then get bussed out to the plane where we would board the old-fashioned way; up a set off rolling stairs. I stepped down off the bus and walked to the rear off the jet. We are so far away from the terminal that the plane is shrouded in darkness, with the exception of the tail fin that brightly sports the suggestion of the Union Jack. I begin to climb the stairs. As I look toward to front of the plane it seems as if it’s being illuminated by a single 150-watt floodlight. I’m not sure why but I swing my camera from around my shoulder and take a picture. It all seemed so surreal.

I settle into 21F, slipping into it like a pair of old gloves. A flight attendant comes by to inform me that I am sitting in an exit row and asks me if I’m able to open the door in the case of an emergency. I tell her I’ve been reading up on it and that I’ve practiced at home. She seems satisfied. I take off my shoes and prepare my iPod and headphones. I feel myself relax as my body begins to shape itself to the form of the seat. I suddenly felt like Adam; of Adam & Eve fame. Or I imagined we shared a similar lot. Both of us being expelled from Paradise to some extent. Only I was over-dressed and was certainly less guilt-ridden. I closed my eyes and await the pushback, or whatever it is we’ll do to get this thing off the ground. I hear, as well as feel, the cabin door close and the change of pressure in the plane.

I look at my watch. It’s 8:20 pm. My Exodus is eminent. And then,

“…Something leaking from an air conditioning valve. This shouldn’t take too long to correct. Our flight time to London is scheduled at 4 hours, 10 minutes and just as soon as we’re in the air we’ll try to make up as much time as possible. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Thirty minutes later we are finally ready to leave and head back to the emotional security of England. A flight attendant slides into the jump seat opposite me and buckles herself in. She’s a young, brunette with a slim figure. We exchange awkward smiles. That kind that is evitable when two strangers are forced to stare across at each other without the benefit of a formal introduction. I look down at her name tag. It says, Jo.

I ponder this for a moment and finally decide to break the ice. “Excuse me. I hate to seem intrusive, but does British Airways have a policy of protecting the identities of their flight crews?” As soon as I asked the question I knew it was a convoluted query. Even I was confused by the question.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just that when I flew down here from London the flight attendant in that seat was also named Jo.”

“How odd. That’s really my name.”

“Wow. What a small world.”

Yes indeed. What a small world it had turned out to be.