Texas Bound

I’m always nervous, even a little fearful, before I fly all on my own.

I figure the experience is gonna be jam-packed with giant hurdles and major hassles because:

A) The whole commercial flying thing has always been a pain in the patootie but now, with the Transportation Security Administration, WAY more hurdley as well as annoying to the nth power. Plus, I almost ALWAYS get searched. Yeah, we middle aged, hippy broads are always packing trouble -- possibly even knitting needles and Yankee Magazines!

And

B) Hello, deaf now. How many communication interactions do any of us have to get through in order to get on a flight? Tons. Mega tons. Fully loaded Queen Mary tons. Think about all the interactions you have to go through to get on a plane. Now, think about jumping though all those hoops, successfully and relatively smoothly, without hearing.

Granted, Jen’s usually with me when I fly. That’s part need -- too strong a word but she does the ASL interpreting for me. That and she drives -- yes, I ‘drive’ but I despise it down to the molecular level. I’m a spectacularly nervous driver and this makes me pretty damned shitty behind the wheel. The other part about Jen accompanying me? Jen = fun. Duh.

She doesn’t need to come when I go visiting my wonderful baby girl (OK, she’s 34 but she’s STILL my baby!) niece in Dallas. Helen picks me up at the airport and her whole family knows how to finger spell plus a little ASL. Awesome!

So, I was at the Boston airport on Thursday with an hour to kill before boarding. I'd managed to get my boarding pass, clear the take-your-shoes-off-oh-and-that-hoodie-too-now-wait-in-line-for-your-free-frisking point and found my gate. What to do, what to do now? Hey, how’s ‘bout a glass of Sauvignon Blanc while reading a bit of Alice Hoffman's latest The Dovekeepers? Sold!

I walk into the very crowded Wolfgang Puck Restaurant/Bar in Terminal C, thinking I’d sit at the bar but I don’t see any empty seats. The maître d' dashes up to me (I seem to have made it past the velvet rope unescorted -- shriek, horror!) and starts talking. Fast. I stopped her, hand up in crossing guard stop mode, saying ‘I’m deaf. I don’t know what you’re saying. I just want a glass of wine but it doesn’t look like there’s room at the bar.’ She stops talking a mile a minute, smiles and shows that I should follow her -- that she’d find me a place. And she did.

There was one seat left -- in between 2 besuited laptop tapping gents. I tapped them on their respective shoulders and said ‘y’all mind if I squeeze in here?’ No eye contact from them but they immediately shifted over.

The barkeep is there right off, asking what I’d like -- ‘a Sauvignon Blanc please.’ She starts on some long ass spiel so, again, I make with the crossing guard ‘stop’ action. I told her that if she spoke slowly I might be able to read her lips. Nope. Couldn’t. Suit Dude to my right gently, very gently, elbows me and, still without eye contact, makes size indications by positioning his hands close together and then farther apart. ‘OH, I get it now. A large please!’

The bartender laughed, a bit embarrassed, saying she should have known to do that. I elbowed Suit Dude back, winked at the bartender, saying ‘he’s my interpreter.’ He left shortly after the ‘terp fun but turned to high five me first.

Still no clue what his eye color was but I’m figuring he’s a Man With No Name fan.

Airports -- I’m starting to, maybe, think of them as fun places. Of course, I might be delusional.