Goin' South, Part V.

Our little adventure was at it's end. We said goodbye to 19th century luxury and busied ourselves with packing up and returning the HHR. Clearing security and boarding the plane took 15 minutes, tops.

I turned my attention to the Sky Mall magazine and the whine of the jet turbines as our lone flight attendant reviewed the multiple ways to escape death in a doomed airplane, should we find ourselves in such a rare situation.

My fancy new Swatch watch's chronometer recorded a precise, 30 second take-off roll between brake release and rotation, and Asheville fell beneath us. I glimpsed both The Biltmore and the Grove Park Inn from the window in the evening dusk, and wished them both well.

Atlanta's airport is the LAX of the south. It's so big (how big is it?) that subway cars shuttle passengers from one terminal to another, deep beneath the runways.

Maura and I wedged ourselves into seats 38 D and E. Passenger 38F showed up momentarily, a young girl on her way to Pomona to be interviewed for veterinary school. Groans were heard as a woman toting two young children dropped into the seats two rows ahead. Kids + cramped quarters + time + cabin pressurization = crying. Lots of crying.

Then things got really bad. The woman in 37F, right in front of us, hunched over and started to sob. The sobbing grew into crying. The crying grew into a wail. Ping! Ping! PING! Passengers started pushing the flight attendant call buttons. The vet student gave me one of those "Oh great, we're screwed now" looks. I gave her one back.

As we later learned, Miss 37F was on her way to rehab in Palm Springs, but not before she mixed up a stimulant and wine cocktail in the airport bar. Our stewardess took off her "enjoy the flight" face and put on her "So help me God, sit up and maintain control, because I've got three officers on the jetway ready to haul your ass off of this plane" demeanor for the benefit of Miss 37F. Wow, I didn't know that flight attendants that in them, unless Captain Skully says the plane's landing in the Hudson.

Thank God for the nice lady in 37D. I don't know who she was, but she spent the entire four hour flight engaging Miss 37F in conversation and keeping her from doing something stupid, like opening a cabin door at 36,000 feet.

At least it took my mind off the width of the seat.