"THE BLOG FOR A QUALITY WASTE OF TIME"

Friday, July 13, 2018

A Loverly Jaunt Across the Pond



Random Reflections from a Far Too Long Plane Ride, or
Hopefully, it's Not My Ignorance that’s Bliss

“Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away” – S. Cahn

A 7 and ½ hour flight lay ahead of me, from Newark Airport to Heathrow and yet, inexplicably, I feel a calm, a peace, I have never before experienced on any flight, even a trek as blissfully brief as one frequented from my beloved NYC home to the mini-NYC of the Great White North, Toronto. I can’t explain this phenomena, and I shan’t attempt to now (although, an explanation of some sort is likely forthcoming as I have very little control of the thoughts, ideas and opinions that make its way from a semi-creative, often active noggin to the fingertips struggling across a Bluetooth keyboard awash in error and verbal miscalculations.)

Is it the fact that the destination at journey’s end is undoubtedly my favorite locale on the globe, the land in which I fantasize experiencing the remainder of my retired years? Is it the very English woman in the adjoining seat who was immediately reminiscent of brilliant British thespian, Glenda Jackson? Is it the shuffle on my iPod Nano, frequently playing Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Airplane related performers, who usually never fail to relax me with or without the assistance of Mother Nature's most successful and soon to be legal herbal intoxicant? Or mayhaps, most realistically, was it the two, overly-poured pinot grigios at the faux fancy airport tavern and the delightfully unanticipated free champagne upon boarding in Premium Economy? Yet, although it very well may be the potent potables that force me to compose this while the plan was headsets on, pillow ‘neath the neck, blanket tightly tucked with a hoped for visit from the Sandman for this overnight odyssey across the Atlantic; this post-Lindberg, trans-Atlantic foray is one I’ve partaken of almost a dozen times, fueled by spirits each and every outing, and never before has such serenity overtaken me.



Upon further thought, as the almost otherworldly perfection and beauty of Miles Davis' Flamenco Sketches now wafts through my Audio Technica noise reduction headphones, maybe my current pacificity arises from that trumpeted artistry in concert with the beautiful British Isles accent of the Billie Piper-doppelganger flight attendant who just handed me my hot, really not so hot, cocoa. And to some degree, I suspect, this enjoyable and continuous contentment and calm may have also come from the satisfying and long-awaited unfriending and blocking of a childhood comrade on Facebook, immediately prior to boarding, who has mistakenly believed for years, that because we were once cordial some 4 decades ago, she held the right to condescendingly judge, criticize and critique each writing, opinion and life choice I have ever openly articulated. She does not, and the freedom of finally releasing her from my online existence after interminable, imagined eons of wishing to do so, but for fear of offense, is indeed, quite freeing.


Assuredly, said serenity certainly does not originate from the ever-tightening, vise grip of the shoes, midair, in faulty made-made, cabin overly-pressured environment, which upon blessed Mother Earth are definitively the most comfortable foot coverings I own, or the sudden, consistent throbbing in my lower leg. Then, I suppose, we also must consider the food tray, recently arrived, carrying comestibles, under which any other more sane circumstances would be justifiably, roundly and righteously, rightfully rejected, but once trapped thousands of feet in the atmosphere, with naught to pass the time but Vince Vaughn film festivals and Lock Up, maximum security level meals are excitedly anticipated and gloriously accepted and treasured as the Magi anticipated the birth of the savior.


To be terrifically truthful, once alighting upon the bountifully beautiful British Empire, I will be reunited with a dear friend,  my personal favorite of all of Earth's population, of whom I have been separated, a sea apart, but with the occasional company of her loving feline, for a thoroughly unacceptable period of time. And, when once again, keeping her company, we will be doing so for the opening of her brand new musical on a West End stage, an enviable impressive accomplishment and artistic achievement, so one would imagine these further elements would certainly bespeak the rarity of such an optimistic and uncharacteristically pleasant and delighted demeanor.


If you have been benevolent enough to stay attentive throughout this entire meandering expressive endeavor, perhaps the query has occurred to you, "is there a point arriving at some juncture?" for I, too, share that very concern and have, unfortunately, arrived at the conclusion, that that ship has sailed many alliterations ago. No pending satisfactory denouement to be found here, just a need to convey happiness at a troubled time when such sentiments are becoming increasingly difficult to obtain. Come fly with me.

“Once I get you up there where the air is rarified
We'll just glide, starry-eyed
Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so very near
You may even hear a whole gang cheer 'cause we're together”

Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions?  Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com