The Flight (2)

At three p.m. the next day, I arrive at the airport in the bullet-proof four-wheel-drive monster that my friend’s husband used to chauffeur Madonna just a day earlier. He tells me that Madonna sat in the same seat I was in as he unloads my suitcase and places it on the sidewalk.

Great, I think to myself. My ass touched the same spot that Madonna’s ass did yesterday. It must be a good omen.

When I arrive at the El Al check-in line, I see Rita is already there speaking to one of the attendants at the counter. If she sees me, she doesn’t show it. I assume that she is asking about a window seat for me. I am so glad to see her. I want to tell her that I can do it myself since I am already there, but I don’t want to interrupt. She seems deeply involved in the conversation. I approach the counter. I give the attendant my passport and ticket and ask her to change my aisle seat to a window one. While the attendant checks availability, I approach Rita to tell her that I’m changing my seat on my own. Before I can say anything, she rummages through her purse, pulls out her wallet, and waves it in my face. 

“Freddy gave me a credit card with five thousand dollars and another thousand to upgrade my seat to first class. But I don’t want to spend the entire thousand dollars, so I upgraded to business for only four hundred dollars.”

I seriously don’t know how to respond to this. I feel I have stepped back in time and into a Seinfeld episode. Are you this oblivious? I am dying to ask her. You didn’t bother to tell me you were doing this when you saw me at the counter? And stupid me thought you were there early to help me. I feel beyond stupid. I simply can’t believe I am living this moment. For weeks she has been telling me we should sit across the aisle from one another, so we can spend 15 hours in the air together, and she goes and upgrades herself to business class and doesn’t bother to tell me when I am standing next to her for at least 10 minutes and there is no way she hasn’t seen me at the counter.

I pretend to be happy for her. But I know that something profound has changed in my relationship with her. I am not sure what it is yet, but I know it is happening. As far as I understand friendships.

Rita collects her stuff and beams at me. “I’ll come visit you, I’ll switch seats with you so you can lie down. It will be great,” she laughs, utterly pleased with the new situation and unaware of the ridiculousness of her behavior. She saved six hundred dollars and will be able to use them on something else. Maybe she will upgrade her flight back to San Francisco. 

“I’m glad I was able to change my seat to a window,” I say, feeling too pathetic for words. “I’ll be able to sleep, at least.”

“I’ll come visit you,” she giggles, choking on her words as if it were a funny joke. She is bursting with joy. “See you later,” she waves to me and walks away.

Now that she upgraded her seat, she doesn’t have to stand in the long security line with the rest of the proletariat. She happily pushes her carry-on suitcase and what looks like a makeup bag, to the shorter line of the privileged few and forgets that I exist. She is utterly excited about the flight, checking her surroundings and chatting on her phone.

When I find my seat on the plane, I have to squeeze myself past an older couple who I quickly find out are part of a group traveling to Israel to visit Christian sites. Even though they know we have a long flight ahead, they don’t try to be friendly, although they do agree to show me their itinerary when I ask to see it. The man is a bit more talkative. His wife, who sits between us, is almost hostile in her silence.

The flight is only half-full, but by the time I figure that out, all the empty seats are taken by the stretched legs of the lucky ones who were fast enough to claim them. I am stuck at the window for 15 hours with the pilgrims.

Three hours go by before Rita comes to report about the great food and service they have in business class. “It’s like a restaurant there, the food is great,” she gushes from the aisle, partially leaning on the pilgrim man’s seat. “And the bed is so comfortable. There is no one next to me. I have the whole place to myself.” She produces one of her cutesy giggles again, pleased with her fabulous spot. “They give you anything you want. It’s amazing.” She completely forgot that she was going to offer to switch places with me so I could stretch my legs.

“How are you?” she remembers to ask. 

“Great,” I say. What else am I supposed to say? “I went to the bathroom earlier and met a really cool Israeli woman who lives in Portland.” 

I volunteer this information because she is still standing there, hovering above the pilgrims, who are starting to doze off. I don’t want her to talk to them about traveling through Israel, and how she is a tour guide, and how they can exchange phone numbers and call her if they need anything. Maybe they can friend her on Facebook. They’ll get pissed off at me for bringing havoc into their lives. And we still have more than 10 hours to Tel Aviv.

“What does she look like? Can you show her to me?” she asks about the woman from Portland.

“When I go to the bathroom next time,” I suggest. I don’t really want to hear about the great bathrooms in business class but what else can I say?

“Come now,” she says, “let’s do some stretches.”

The poor pilgrims want to sleep. I better go or they will never have a quiet moment.

The Israeli flight attendants are super nice. Unlike the notorious flight attendants from United and American Airlines, they don’t frown or tell us to go back to our seats when we stand by the bathrooms and do all kinds of stretches for what feels like a long time. I am so grateful to them for allowing me to loiter near their service station. They offer us pastries and sandwiches. Rita looks a bit disappointed when she realizes that they served her the same pastries in the esteemed business class (a.k.a. premium). But they offered more variety over there, she tells me. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

The Israeli woman I met earlier comes out of the bathroom and sees me. I introduce her to Rita, and from that moment, my presence is no longer required. Once Rita finds out that the woman owns a clothing store in Portland, she starts telling her about her own jewelry business (she also sells jewelry and clothes at arts and crafts fairs and street festivals) and asks to friend her on Facebook. She can come to Oregon to visit and see the store. She loves the woman’s haircut and clothes, and especially her boots, she exclaims appreciatively.

She shows the woman her Facebook page with the jewelry she sells and they discuss business. The woman notices that in the profile picture, Rita has dozens of thin, long, blond braid extensions but now she has shoulder-length brownish hair with blond highlights. “I had to let my scalp rest, but I’ll get new extensions when I return, or maybe I’ll get new ones in Israel,” Rita says and then suggests that they meet in Israel. The woman is traveling to visit her aging parents and is not sure if she will have time to meet. For a moment, she seems to be drowning in the tsunami of friendliness and interest showered on her by Rita. I am just an observer, watching the scene unfold in front of me. When Rita goes to the bathroom, I tell the woman that Rita is a super friendly person who loves to meet people, especially Israelis. “I prefer your quiet style better,” she says without looking at me.

I feel somewhat vindicated and head back to my seat with the 99 percenters. Rita goes to lie down in her wide bed in business class. She says she is going to take some pills to help her sleep. “I told them not to wake me up for breakfast,” she brags before we part ways.