The trip that takes a lifetime

Day 1.5 – 2

The taxi came through and deposited us at Spokane airport with time to spare. In a mere hour and a half we were skyward on the first aerial leg of our wonderful adventure. Only 2 seats on each side of the aisle so I had no one to talk to (Carol doesn’t count because all she does is read or make lists).

A quick touch down in Seattle and we were at 45 degrees once more heading for the quirky confines of Portland, Oregon. Our first aircraft was a brand new version made in Finland or Germany. It was insanely quiet and comfortable. This second aluminum tube was a used-up Bombardier that was well past it’s Best Before date. The twin turboprop was spewing so much smoke and raw oil right outside my window that I could taste it. By my calculations the world cataclysm that is a certainty was one week closer by this plane alone. The worst part though was the vibration that made the cabin shudder and every plastic panel was in motion. I actually saw a rivet holding the overhead bin directly above Carol fall into her lap. She absent-mindedly reached for it as she was enngrossed in her book thinking it was a crumb from one of the 3 snacks that she had already inhaled but I snatched it away at the last moment and set it on the floor beside the other 2 that had dropped from this plane’s previous outing. This also was a 2 seat per side of the aisle configuration so no verbal communication was possible again.

Another fast turnover and we were loading onto flight number three. A larger aircraft was required for this portion due to the longer flight duration so there were 3 seats across this time. I was ahead of Carol and found our seats and was heading for the window seat when Carol pulled me back and gave me that You’re Dead stare and I quickly let her push past me. This of course was fate as I now would be able to chat with whomever landed in the aisle seat beside me. Nope not him, not her, Bingo! A similar-aged male who already spoke before he even took his seat. “Hi my name is Al, mine’s Dennis”. And off we went. The two and half hours flew by as we exchanged life experiences about the crime and traffic in Portland, dissected the Cowboys shortcomings on defense and I filled him in on rural British Columbia. The new diversity that was changing the cultural landscape and the high price of fuel. He had kids, I had kids. He liked anything automotive and I brought up the YouTube clip of my Chevy doing a burnout on my tablet. A meaty handshake as we parted ways after we arrived at DFW airport sealed the good time and we settled in for a two hour layover before the grueling last leg of our journey.

Our Madrid aircraft was a 777-200, 10 seats wide divided by two aisles carrying almost 400 people. Same scenario, Carol took the window and I had the conversation seat.

We were seated about 200th so I watched down the aisle as the line of passengers was searching for their seats. There was a farmer from Wisconsin wearing his Packers hat, a thoroughly tatooed and pierced young girl who 35 years earlier would have drawn some interest from me but now she was naive and I was a dinosaur. There was a middle-aged black dude who might need all 3 seats to accommodate his girth scraping past the already seated passengers. Fortunately he made a hard left at row number 27 (we were in row 31). Lucky number 31J went to the most interesting person that I’ve ever been mated to (figuratively of course).

He was a stout man, late 50s maybe, with light-coloured hair brushed into a short ponytail that snuck out of the cap he was wearing.

It wasn’t a ball cap but looked like a hybrid sports-military version that maybe came from a southeast Asia conflict. After speaking with him I had decided that he had decapitated it’s original owner and decided to keep the cap instead of the head as he would be travelling light.

He wore a sleeveless shirt exposing dense arms, not particularly muscular upon first observation, but a no nonsense pair of appendages none the less. The shirt wasn’t the typical fare that you would see like a tank top. It looked like it had seen duty as a full length covering in an earlier life and now was ragged near the shoulders as if it had been torn off by a lion. It probably had been blood soaked during the aforementioned decapitation and he had tired of explaining the circumstances and dealt with it accordingly. The rest of his attire was nondescript.

His name was Alan and he was a retired aeronautical engineer. He was travelling from Texas to Toulouse via Madrid. He had spent the better part of five years working for Airbus in Toulouse through a subcontractor.

He was a troubleshooter for some major airlines who also worked on a private jet for Hawker. It was so powerful that it could almost go vertical soon after takeoff. He told me of one instance where he was on board during a test where a potential customer (who controlled the electricity grid in an African country) was looking for a way to go to Monaco to watch the F1 race. The customer was also a hands-on race enthusiast and was always looking to push the limits. So he was offered a quick trip in the Hawker. A white-knuckle ride ensued and a sale was made. Another time he was sent to work out some quirks on the Concorde, which of course he did.

Normally I can spin a yarn from my past before age had neutered me but I spent the most of three hours nodding and offering affirmative comments as matter-of-fact tales were told. He would nonchalantly throw in a story of someone he knew at the CIA facility in the desert where translation and decryption were carried on.

He also spoke of failed relationships and touched on family matters and growing up in Kansas. He was drinking double vodkas and I had been nursing a couple of glasses of complimentary wine.

Then we had a discussion on the bible. He had studied the old testament for over 25 years and had decided there was a discrepancy that he uncovered regarding God’s sanctioning of sacrifices by the Jews and could not abide with it and was now a nonbeliever for the most part. We had some back and forth and agreed to disagree on amicable terms.

By now I was 15 hours into my journey and needed rest so we called it a night. It was 6pm from my starting point but 3am on my destination timepiece. A restless remainder of the flight ensued and we reached our destination utterly spent.

On deplaning Alan and I shook hands, exchanged contact info as he said that he might be able to slip over to Montpellier when we would be there near the end of the month. He was familiar with the area and could show us some interesting sights. He said he had to hurry to make his Toulouse connection as he was going to a Mark Knopfler concert in Bordeaux tonight. Awhile back he had met Dire Straits keyboardist Alan Clarke through a friend and had a passing relationship with them and was given second row aisle seats. I was going to tell him how I had once met Colonel Sanders on a Penticton beach but thought I would save that gem for another time.

So finally we were in Madrid. The best $18 I ever spent.