On the way to our trip

We finished our packing this morning and wrapped up the last of our errands — the bank, the last minute store run and so on — and then headed to Atlanta.

We met up with Dr. Erin Ryan (now at Kennessaw State, who was formerly one of The Yankee’s professors at Alabama). We had lunch in the car on the way, but had an early dinner with Erin at a place called the Paradise Cafe. The sun was still out, the roads were quiet, the place was empty, the music was good and we sat on the deck, eating our last bit of American food for two weeks.

I’d voted for Chinese.

I had a light meat and vegetable thing. The Yankee had something that vaguely resembled Mexican.

Erin took us to the airport after we dropped our car off at her place. They say allow yourself two hours on international flights — because that will give you plenty of time to enjoy the splendors of an international airport — so we were early, for a change.

So we checked in with British Airways (who’s cabin crews have been threatening with a strike for weeks, now). We checked one bag each, carried a small roller on board each and our backpacks. Therein we have clothes for 17 days. Somehow we made weight.

The Yankee had to readjust her packing to do it, begging the question of the point. She still carried the same amount of luggage it was just organized in a slightly different fashion. That one shirt and bathing suit that got her under the checked bag weight is just now in the passenger cabin. With physics thwarted we made our way to the gate. Where we waited.

I received a phone call from a college while we waited. I’d sought out a bit of information to a program offering master’s degrees in military history just to see what it was about and they called me this evening.

I was just curious. I’m wrapping up a doctoral degree right now, so I’m not exactly your top priority right now.

“Understood.”

And then there was the great plane line, where we all vie for position, eye each other to determine strengths, weakness and possibility. We do this while not at all considering how we’re all going to the same place and will all arrive there, more or less, at the same time.

But being ahead of that guy is important.

Our plane is a 777, which means big. There are four compartments. One for the big spenders (they have the recliner sleeper). One had a few seats. The next section had a slightly more dense population of seats. Our section, they called us world travelers, I prefer the romance of the old nomenclature and call us “steerage.”

There are four compartments, which begs the questions: Why can’t one of these be for kids? And how aerodynamic is soundproofing material?

Kicking, screaming, overnight kids directly behind me. This child was destined to spend the entire trip being held, uncomfortably, in her mother’s lap. The screaming child directly in front had impressively inattentive parents. Joy of joys.

The chief cabin steward comes on the PA system to discuss the entertainment options and apologize — profusely and repetitively — for the food. It seems that the threat of strike, which had been avoided, had altered their logistical planning. The food, he sniffed, would not be up to their usual standard. It was still better than anything available on a U.S. airline in the last 30 years.

Now. I should tell you that the flight is an overnight deal, so all of these details blur together. This entry will deal just with the first leg of the flight and we’ll pick up with London and then on to Rome. So that leaves us with the movies I watched on the plane. British Airways gives you headphones and they run maybe seven or eight movies on the channel of your choice. In the next cycle they change the movies. This is the way to travel.

Without the kid kicking me in the back, I mean. The one that’s in her mother’s lap. The one that’s kicking me in her sleep. All night.

At least one of us got some sleep.

I took the movies.

I watched Crazy Heart. Ordinarily I wouldn’t watch a movie about country music in any capacity. (The Thing Called Love having ruined all others for me.) While I can enjoy the musical genre some things just don’t translate well to film. But Crazy Heart was well received and won two Oscars, besides. I’m a captive audience, why not? There’s a catchy tune or two in the movie, though one of them will be stuck in my head if something else doesn’t come along and bounce it out.

The better movie was Book of Eli. Not a bad film for the post-apocalyptic genre, but the end really makes the entire story.

So, because of the movies and the kick-around-sound provided by the four-year-old behind me I barely dozed. This will make for a long tomorrow, but at least I’ll be tired in Europe.