The best way to go

It's surely too easy for me, cynic that I am, to discount the freedoms I enjoy as an American. But there's nothing like embarking on an international trip to remind me how fortunate I am to see the world unimpeded by a regime. No matter how often the flight is cancelled, delayed, or overbooked, as long as I manage my impatience, I know I'll eventually arrive—perhaps "bloodied but unbowed"—in London, Munich, or Dakar. Then my dyspepsia vaporizes with the contrail, gone, gone, gone.

I won't pretend, however, that the journey by air is a treat: It's the Destination, Baby. Today, for instance, Tom and I awoke to the alarm at 3:30 a.m., hastily dressed, and he had me at Port Columbus by 4:00 for my 5:50 departure to the airport big enough to host a flight to Africa. Since international flights nearly always leave in late afternoon or in the evening; and since during the holidays I'm lucky to get any flights at all, here I am at 7 a.m. until South African Airlines feigns boarding my 5:40 departure around 4:30. My experience suggests that we'll be lucky to fly by 8:30. But who knows? This could be the day.

It is a very particular Hell to wander bedraggled for a day in a huge airport (Dull-Us indeed!), hoisting the so-called "hand luggage" (the size, weight, and unruliness of a small sow) dragging a winter coat and scarf on your sweating arm, and like the Drooping Dutchman, doomed never to linger in any port. The butt-breaking seats at departure gates fill and clear in waves; you can't rest there. The crowded eateries cost a fortune; after an hour in a restroom stall, people start to grumble against you.

This morning, though, I'm writing from the comfort of an easy chair in the hushed, carpeted United Club, a cup of coffee at my hand, my computer plugged into one of myriad outlets. I bask in the rays of free Wi-Fi. Food is piled up for the taking; a bartender is ready to mix me a martini at 8:30 in the morning. And I walked right in because the concierge scanned my United ticket from Columbus: "First Class." I'll fly South African's Business Class to Dakar.

Holy cow! This is a fabulous gift from my wonderful sister, whose consulting business with a national clientele allows her to accumulate vast numbers of airline miles. She is speeding me to Dakar in the class she flies as a matter of psychic and physical self-preservation. 

I am not used to being served, but I can tell you already that I don't mind it. To be relieved of the discomfort to my arthritic hips and the effort of dragging myself through a day of displacements is already heavenly relief. It's nice to know that I can fall asleep in this lounge without having my slumbers filled with murmurings about the rape of my "personal belongings."

But I'm not a traveler in the sense my sister is. She makes her living by travel; I'm off to explore. Happy as I am to enjoy the perks conferred upon me by my tickets, I find that I nevertheless feel a little awkward. It's not a question of desserts, though, or a sense that I'm on the wrong side of the American division of wealth: I feel quite untroubled by these issues. It's the destination.

I know where I'm going and what it's like there. I'll debark at a Third World airport; I'll walk down steps from the airplane and cross the tarmac on foot. The airport is unairconditioned. The country is poor. Simply by virtue of going there, I am rich and privileged. Forget "first class." I am first class because I exist and got from America to Senegal. How comfortable can you get? How comfortable do I need to be? To be in Senegal is to be uncomfortable. For me, at least. I'm going for my daughter and her family; but I go knowing that I'll spend a month being discomfited.

I'm on my way!