Anarchy at 35,000 Feet

hat you are about to read is a true story. It was not drawn from the letters of any astute readers, but was unfortunately experienced first-hand, by yours truly. You will be tempted to cover your eyes, hide your face, and scream outloud. I was tempted to do all those things--and did. Multiple times. It doesn't help. But if it makes you feel better, go right ahead.

It's 4:10 a.m. I have just boarded an airplane flying from one unnamed, third-world country (UTWC) to another, supposedly in the business class section, though I don't see that there is any difference between our seats and those in coach. A gaggle of small children is sitting in my immediate vicinity, with their parents and other assorted relatives, who refuse to control them. The father of said unruly gaggle is standing in my row, trying to sort out his family members' various seating assignments. He dutifully steps aside when I motion he's in my row, but nevertheless takes at least 20 minutes more in matching his boarding cards with the apparently cryptic numbers above the seats. Meanwhile, his kids are jumping up and down, playing musical chairs, he is chatting with other men who seem to be in his party, and the mother is sitting in her seat, looking oblivious to the whole scene. Every few minutes, he shuffles the boarding passes around, checks the seat numbers on them, and then squints up at the numbers above the seats. "Three-A, three-B, three-D." He looks from right to left, trying to crack the code. Then it's, "Two-D, two-F" and "Four-A... Oh, oh yes, four-A." They have actually been assigned two seats next to me, but of course I don't say anything and let him think that 4A and 4B, where two members of his party are already sitting, are actually the 3A and 3B corresponding to his ticket stubs.

4:30 a.m.: At long last, we are taking off. In true UTWC fashion, they turn off the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign when we reach the lofty altitude of 10 feet. And, in true UTWC fashion, the instant the sign goes off, a mass "clicking" noise reverberates through the cabin, almost like an echo effect from one end of the plane to the other, it's so fast. It's as if wearing the seat belt for those two minutes during take-off was just SO unbearably confining, no one could take it any longer.

4:33 a.m.: Without the benefit of seatbelts to restrain them, all the small children are now roaming the aisles, clearly having been plied with large, Super Big Gulp-sized doses of "Jolt" prior to the flight to get them so wired.

5:05 a.m.: One would think that at 5am, I would be sleeping--but no. Above-mentioned gaggle of children playing tag in the cabin has ensured that that won't happen. Never mind the bright lights on in the cabin and the flight attendants serving breakfast. Our flight is less than three hours long-is breakfast really necessary? Couldn't they have just offered us some OJ and been done with it?

5:12 a.m.: I am in full faux-sleeping mode, trying to tune out the wild horde of soccer fans masquerading as small children. One of the little boys has to use the lavatory. The father wants the flight attendant to take him, but the flight attendant doesn't understand the request at first. The father then says loudly, "No. BATHROOM! BATH-ROOM! B-A-T-H-" He is cut off mid-letter by the flight attendant, indicating she understands and ushering the little boy up the aisle toward the lavatory. Why the father could not have taken the boy himself is a mystery.

5:13 a.m.: I begin opening my eyes a bit to glare at the cabin in general, hoping it will have some effect on the mayhem, but my looks unfortunately go entirely unnoticed and therefore have no effect whatsoever. Sleep is futile.

5:27 a.m.: OK, breakfast has been cleaned up (I didn't eat--who can eat an omelet at 5 a.m.??) and now they have mercifully dimmed the lights a little for the last hour of the flight. The effect of semi-darkness on the little monsters is minimal, but one can always hope that one of the flight attendants slipped a sedative into the kids' juice.

The flight seems interminable, but we finally land. The line at the transfer desk is atrocious, and I think it quite likely that I will miss my connecting flight. When I finally do make it through the line and pass into the terminal itself, I notice with no small amount of horror that the pack of children seems to be loitering near my gate. I briefly consider luring them into the duty free shop and offering them some alcohol, but decide the possibility of being detained by UTWC police is too scary a proposition. Instead, I take refuge in the ladies' room. Later, when I am safely in the air on my connecting flight, blissfully surrounded by no small children but only reasonable, non-tag-playing adults, I slip a sedative into my own drink in an attempt to overcome the trauma of the morning. OK, so I didn't slip a sedative into my own drink. But I was tempted to.

--Marni Myers