Turks Rule the Air, Almost the World

Did you know that American Airlines doesn't offer peanuts anymore? Peanuts used to be so cheap that my uncle would yell, "I'm getting paid peanuts!" If you yell that on an American flight, people will say, "In this economy? You've been blessed."

Not in Turkey. I had an hour and a half flight from Istanbul to Ankara yesterday, rounding out a 24 hour period of travel, and they served lunch. It wasn't even lunchtime. We left Istanbul at 1:30. And it was an inconvenient meal. As soon as we reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants were throwing these trays out. They didn't even bother with the cart. It was like dock workers throwing fish - cous cous in the face! And I hadn't even started my chocolate mousse before an attendant was shoveling my uneaten salad into a trash bag. She said we were preparing to land. We were preparing to take off thirty minutes ago.

You can't get mad, though. On my ten hour flight from New York to Istanbul, it was like the attendants were trying to compost the trash on my fold out tray. They would be handing out breakfast sandwiches and say, "Oh, I'll take the rest of your cheese tortellini."

I was lucky this time - I didn't get an emergency exit, but I did sit behind a woman who got an emergency exit, and she also had a broken arm. The flight attendant made her move because she was unable to operate the door. I volunteered to switch spots with her. As we disembarked in Turkey, she said to the attendant, "See - I told you we wouldn't crash."

On the way over the Atlantic, I watched The Green Zone and Prince of Persia. After The Green Zone I wanted to watch something much more fun and lightweight, but it turns out those movies are very similar. Apparently Prince of Persia is a thinly veiled allegory for Iraq. I'm serious. The whole movie the  king is searching for a weapons forge in this city he invaded, but it turns out his evil advisor tricked him into an attack to secure the Sands of Time. It's a good thing Jason Bourne was there, or he might have gotten away with it.

On the flight to Ankara, the pilot made a paragraph long announcement in Turkish, and the whole plane began to clap. I thought he had just told an awesome story about how he almost met Tom Cruise or accidentally stole a car in Zurich. But during his English translation, it turned out that the Turkish national basketball team was on the flight with us. They had just lost in the FIBA finals to the U.S. I didn't know this, however, because the Turkish papers in the airport had headlines that translated into, "CHAMPIONS." I guess Turkey decided to pull a North Korea on that one.

I'm Leaving for Nine Months and I'm Going to Take -

I'm packing tonight for Turkey. I'll be in a remote region, in Van (pronounce Juan because of the strong Hispanic connections in the Middle East), and I'm trying to prioritize my things. What matters most to me? What will provide the most entertainment? What can hold the most heroin?

I have a 72 disc binder; it has three seasons of Buffy, the collected series Firefly, a few video games to get me through the Pankratium (November 22nd), and some throwing stars. They're just for goodluck - I haven't had to use them since January. I also packed ten or so books to get me by before my Kindle arrives. One day it'll show up at my door, and I'll think to myself, "I should've changed those stupid locks." We have a destructive relationship, but I can't get away.

Mostly I'm just scared. My parents built a nice new house on the lake, and I don't want to leave it. My dad and I sat on the porch this afternoon and read until I finished my book. I don't want to lose that. In the end I know I'll be thrilled to be in Turkey on Tuesday, but the goodbye tomorrow is the part I don't like.

I leave Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m., and I'll arrive in Ankara, the capital of Turkey, at 4:00 p.m. on Monday. It's called time travel, and it's one of the services I offer. I'll be in Ankara for two weeks for training.

I can't fit my multi-tool into the heel of my Chaco. I want to have it on the plane just in case I'm in an emergency exit row, but the security guards always confiscate. I thought I had them fooled, but I can't make it work. They'd never think to look in my shoes.

Who's the Terrorist Now?

I spent all yesterday traveling. I visited Montana, and had to fly through Seattle and Dallas to get back to Arkansas. The people who run Montana try to limit access; they make it hard to get in, and they make it hard to get out. I felt like I was on Shutter Island, except that I totally wasn't crazy. Everyone else is crazy. Especially the old people in Montana. They were following me with their eyes.

In Seattle my plane was delayed because of heavy rains in Dallas. When the pilot announced it on the intercom he laughed the way America laughs when another county has an economic crisis. Oh yeah, America says, that was last week for me. And yesterday. Probably tomorrow as well. But regardless we had to file out of the plane, peruse the gift shop (another bowl of clam chowder? I don't see why not), and line up to get checked in again. We were not happy with Dallas.

Because of this two hour delay, when we landed in Dallas I had fifteen minutes until my next plane took off. This was a workable situation until I realized my pilot had landed on the exact opposite side of the airport from our gate. This was like the time my drunk fake uncle Patrick parked across a sewer drainage system from the back of a TJMaxx. "What luck! Now who wants designer clothes for less?" Great, Patrick - now we have to swim for it. And I'm not going to call you uncle anymore. I'm eight years old - I know who my real relatives are.

By the time we parked the plane, I had zero minutes, but I was still going to make an effort. I tightened my backpack straps and ran like a dish washer - a military grade dish washer - to the next gate. When I got there it was too late, but they gave me a ticket for the next flight out, leaving in ten minutes from a terminal two letters away. Why? Why not group all these flights together? Why can't humans teleport? Why did uncle Patrick have to lie?

When I got to the gate it was already closed, but a jet bridge worker scanned me in. I couldn't tell him anything. I was breathing too hard. I just help up my ticket and he took it. I was seated in the back of the plane the minute departure was scheduled for, but for some reason, the plane didn't leave. We sat on the tarmac for possibly ten minutes (I almost bought an eight foot tall Anubis statue from Sky Mall, but I didn't have the money. I ripped out the page just in case) when the flight attendant announced that there was an extra person on board, according to the headcount, and they couldn't take off until he or she was off the plane.

I felt like the nice middle aged lady next to me grabbed my stomach and twisted. That was me. I was the extra person. I was the terrorist. After a few seconds deliberation, I raised my hand. I explained the situation and showed the attendant my ticket, but she said I was accounted for. I was okay. I let out a sigh as she left, and was about to reopen Sky Mall (mix my own sodas at home? I think I will) when I realized that if it wasn't me, then there actually was a sleeper unit on this plane. Someone had snuck on, and who knows what kind of throwing stars he had in his belt. Probably ones tipped with poison or sneezing powder. Just as I was working myself up, the flight attendant found him. He was in his thirties, a bigger man who looked like a normal t-ball coach. They all do, I had to tell myself as he was asked to leave the plane.

The woman next to me leaned over and said, "He looks normal, but you never know. They can't be too cautious after 9-11." I realize I just said that as a joke, but it was a joke. This woman was serious. I looked at her. She was probably in her mid-forties. She had sandy blonde hair, glasses and big necklace jewelry, and frail skinny arms. I asked her where she was coming from, and she said a Veteran's hospital in Houston. Did she have someone there she was visiting? No, she said, I was there. "I was in the military in the eighties, but they pulled me back into service for Iraq because of what I do." I smiled. What do you do, plan out the menu? She responded without humor, "No. I'm in intelligence. I was an interrogator." I went to the bathroom and stayed there the rest of the flight.