Why you should NEVER fly into Washington National Airport

There are many, many good reasons why you should NEVER fly into Reagan National Airport in Washington DC. And I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t, and I mean fly–not sit on your butt in the back of the plane. Of course, it goes without saying that if pilots shouldn’t fly there, neither should passengers. And here’s why.

1. The Postage Stamp Effect: like LaGuardia in NYC, the airport was built in the early days of commercial aviation, when the defining factors in aircraft design were slow air speeds, light weights, agile propeller aircraft. Fine.

Maneuvering this thick-winged, lumbering prop job on final was routine at a relative crawl compared to today’s heavier swept wing jets, which need lots of room in the air and on the ground to operate safely. But Washington National is a postage-stamp sized airport from a bygone era, and the serpentine “approach” hasn’t changed:

Look closely at the approach and notice the approach course–145 degrees, right? The runway heading is 194, so do the math: there’s an almost 50 degree heading change on final–and look at where that occurs. It’s at 424 feet above the ground. Which brings up my next point:

2. Extraordinary low-altitude maneuvering: The wingspan of the 737-800 is over 130 feet long, and the jet is normally sinking at a rate of 700 feet per minute on short final. Thirty degrees of bank at 400 feet with seconds to touchdown, with each wingtip dipping up to 50′ in a turn less than 200′ above the ground? And while a 20 degree offset is considered a challenge, the final alignment on such a typical offset approach happens early–but this turn is after the minimum descent altitude, and you get to finalize the crosswind correction at the last second landing on a marginally adequate runway length:

Look at the runway length of the “long” runway: that’s right, 6,800 feet–200′ shorter than LaGuardia’s aircraft carrier deck, and often on final approach, the tower will ask you to sidestep to the 5,200 foot runway instead. So before you even start the approach, you’d better figure and memorize your gross weight and stopping distance corrected for wind and in most cases, you’ll note that the total is within a couple hundred feet of the shorter runway’s length.

Then figure in the winds and the runway condition (wet? look at the numbers: fuggeddabout it) So the answer is usually “unable”–but at least half of the time I hear even full-sized (not just commuter sized) jets accepting the clearance. I accepted the clearance (had a small stopping distance margin and the long runway was closed for repairs) to transition visually to the short runway one night and at 500 feet, that seat-of-the-pants feel that says get the hell out of town took over and I diverted to Dulles instead.

“Do you fell lucky today, punk?”

If that wasn’t hairy enough (get the pun? “hairy,” “Harry?”) from the north, approaching from the south, you’ll also get the hairpin turns induced because they need more spacing to allow a take-off. Either way you get last second close-in maneuvering that would at any other airport induce you to abandon the approach–but that’s just standard at Washington Reagan. And once you’re on the ground, stopping is key because there’s no overrun: you’re in the drink on both ends. Is the runway ever wet when they say it’s dry? Icy when they say “braking action good?”

And with the inherent challenges at the capitol’s flagship airport, you’d expect topnotch navaids, wouldn’t you? Well not only do they not have runway centerline lights or visual approach slope indicators (VASI) from the south, plenty of the equipment that is installed doesn’t work on any given day. Here’s the airport’s automated arrival information for Thursday night:

Just a couple things to add to the experience, right?

So let’s review. If you’re flying into Reagan–and I’ve been doing it all month–to stay out of the headlines and the lagoon, calculate those landing distances conservatively. The airport tries to sell the added advantage of a “porous friction overlay” on the short runway that multiplies the normal coefficient of friction, but accept zero tailwind (and “light and variable” is a tailwind) and if there’s not at least 700 feet to spare–I’m going to Dulles (several deplaning passengers actually cursed at me for diverting) without even considering reentering the Potomac Approach traffic mix for a second try at National.

Think through the last minute alignment maneuver and never mind what the tower says the winds are, go to school on the drift that’s skewing your track over the river and compensate early: better to roll out on final inside the intercept angle (right of course) because from outside (left of course) there’s no safe way to realign because of the excessive offset and low altitude. A rudder kick will drag the nose back to the left inside the offset, but from too far left, you’re screwed.

Once you’ve landed, now you face reason number 3:

3: The northbound departure procedure. Noise abatement in places like Orange County-John Wayne are insanity off of a short runway with steep climb angles and drastic power cuts for noise sensitive areas. But DCA has an even better driving forces: the runway is aimed at the national mall which is strictly prohibited airspace.

Again, no problem in a lumbering prop job–but serious maneuvering is required in a 160,000 pound jet crossing the departure end at nearly 200 mph: the prohibited airspace starts 1.9 miles from the end of the runway. We’re usually configured at a high degree of flaps (5-15 versus the normal 1) so you’re climbing steeply as it is–in order to prevent violating the prohibited airspace, you must maintain the minimum maneuvering speed which means the nose is pitched abnormally high–then you must use maximum bank to turn left 45 degrees at only 400 feet above the ground.

What do you think will happen with the nose high and the left wing low if you take a bird or two in that engine? Are there any waterfowl in the bird sanctuary surrounding the airport? Would the situation be any different with a normal climb angle with wings straight and level?

So what’s the payoff for this complicated, difficult operation?

It’s a nice terminal. Congressmen like their free parking at National. And they’re way too busy to ride the Metro to Dulles, despite the bazillion dollars appropriated to extend the metro line from the Capitol to Dulles, adding another twenty minutes to the airport travel time is too much for our very sensitive congressmen to endure.

I think that’s about it as far as pluses and minuses. Fair trade, considering all the factors?

That’s for you to decide for yourself, but hang on–we’re going anyway. Just don’t chew my ass when I land the jet at Dulles instead of Washington Reagan National. Because for all of the above reasons, you probably shouldn’t have been going there anyway.

More insider info? Step into the cockpit:

These 25 short essays in the best tradition of JetHead put YOU in the cockpit and at the controls of the jet.

Some you’ve read here, many have yet to appear and the last essay, unpublished and several years in the writing,  I consider to be my best writing effort yet.

Own a piece of JetHead, from Amazon Books and also on Kindle.

Pilot Report: Boeing 737 vs. McDonnell-Douglas MD-80

Now that I have nearly a thousand hours in the left seat of the Boeing 737-800, and having as well over 15,000 in the MD-80, I feel qualified to make some judgments about how the two stack up against each other.

For me, there’s one hands-down winner. I’ll get to that.

But first, looking at it from a hands-on pilot perspective, let me say what I think are the crucial factors in both jets, then compare them. And I’ll do it in order of importance from my line-swine pilot view:

1. Power: never mind the technology difference between the General Electric JT8D turbo fans on the Maddog and the CFM-56 high-bypass fans on the 737. It’s the thrust difference I want in my right hand when I’m trying to lift 170,000 pounds off a runway. And technology aside (I’ll get to that), the three full power options (22,000, 24,000, and 26,000 pounds of thrust) plus the bonus kick up to 27,000 pounds per engine on the 737 for special use beats the snot out of the 19,000 flat rated and standard de-rated engines on the MD-80. Yes, the -80 weighs less than the 737 (max of 150,000 vs. 174,000 pounds), and no, I don’t have each plane makers’ specs, but the thrust-to-weight performance from the left seat feels substantially more secure and significant from the 737.

You notice that right away when you do a static takeoff with the 737 at all weights: you’ve got buttloads of giddyup (I think engineers call it “acceleration,” but then they don’t actually feel it on paper versus in the cockpit blasting forward–that’s “a buttload of giddyup”) shortening  those critical moments of vulnerability between brake release and V1.

I have no idea what engineers think of when they look at thrust and take-off advantages, but any pilot with experience knows that those seconds before reaching flying speed are the most vulnerable, particularly close to max abort speed, because I’d rather take any problems into the air than have to wrestle them to a stop on a runway. The MD-80 has good smash at mid to light weights, but in crucial situations (Mexico City, for example, or on a short runway on a hot day) the 737’s CFM56’s rule. I need the shortest possible period of on-runway vulnerability; I know engine hot-section limits and longterm life are important too, but the CFM56 achieves better on-wing engine endurance in operation than the JT8Ds, year over year.

Ditto for a go-around or windshear options: the MD-80 is famous for it’s slow acceleration–I’ve been there MANY times–and when you’re escaping from windshear or terrain, I can promise you the pucker factor of the “one, Mississippi, two Mississippi” on up to six to eight seconds will have your butt chewing up the seat cushion like horse’s lips. Not sure if that’s due to the neanderthal 1970’s vintage hydro-mechanical fuel control (reliably simple–but painstakingly slow to spool) or the natural limitation of so many rotor stages. But the 737’s solid state EICAS computers reading seventy-teen parameters and trimming the CFMs accordingly seem to give the performance a clear edge. And a fistful of 737-800 throttles beats the same deal on the Maddog, period. Advantage, Boeing.

2. Wing: let me go back in time. I also flew the F-100 for a couple years as captain. That was a great jet, with a simple wing: no leading edge devices. Coming from jets with slats the feel was clearly different on take-off, where there was a distinct (if you’re a seat-of-the-pants guy, and that’s all I’ve ever been) translational period between rotate and lift-off due to the hard wing. Ditto in the flare and in some reversals in flight like on a go-around. Not a bad thing, just something you had to anticipate, but not a warm-fuzzy in the seat of your aerodynamic pants.

Stretched jet, stretched wing.

That’s a good analogy between the Boeing versus the Douglas wing: you feel the generous lift margin in the 737. That’s because when Boeing stretched the jet to the -800 length, they expanded the wing as well. That wing was already loaded much lighter than the DC-9 wing which Douglas didn’t enlarge when they added to two fuselage plugs plus about 15,000 pounds to the MD-80. Longer and with better cambered  (look at the DC-10, and no dihedral) airfoil is the Boeing design and I’m grateful for their foresight and superior engineering–especially at the top end of the performance envelope: you need anti-ice? No problem–turn it on. The Maddog? Better be 2,000 feet below optimum, or prepare for stall recovery–and anyone on the -80 fleet knows I’m not exagerating. Wing performance? No contest: Boeing.

3. Handling: again let me go back in time. Flew the T-37 like every new Air Force pilot up until recently–then moved on to the T-38. Using standard Tweet inputs on The Rocket would bang your helmet off the canopy because of the boosted flight controls, giving you 720 degrees of roll in a second at full deflection.

That’s the 737 compared to the MD-80: no aileron boost on the -80, and little help from the powered rudder–because of the long fuselage length and relatively short moment arm between the vertical fin and the MAC (Mean Aerodynamic Chord), the rudder seems to only impart a twisting moment that’s pretty useless. So it’s a wrestling match for roll control, in and out of turns with the -80.

I still tend to over control the 737 in acute roll situations (e.g., the 30 degree offset final at 300′ AGL required in and out of DCA) due to previous brain damage caused by years of arm wrestling the MD-80 around tight corners. But with the 737, the seat-of-the-pants security of that generous wing is apparent at all speed and altitudes and the hydraulic aileron boost gives you the muscle to command a smooth and prompt response. Handling? It’s all 737 for me, including on the ground: new MD-80 captains will need Ibuprofen to counter the wrist strain of the nosewheel steering, two-handed in tight spots. I don’t miss that at all.

4. Cockpit layout: okay, give the -80 its due–that was one comfortable nest once you got settled. But that’s as far as it goes for me. Yes, I know the 737 kitbag position is inaccessible. But American Airlines is the first airline certified by the FAA for iPad use from the ground to altitude. Kitbag, what’s a kitbag?

MD-80 left seat–HSI? Where is it?

Trade-off? The MD-80 HSI is obscured by the control yoke. Are you kidding me? Like you might need lateral situational awareness for trivia like, navigating? Flying an approach? I spent 20+ years working around that human factors engineering failure–I’m grateful for the Boeing engineers who gave me seven 9″ CRT flat plate displays with every parameter I could want displayed digitally and God bless them all–a Heads Up Display! Lord have mercy, even a simpleton has a crosscheck in that jet thanks to the God of HUD.

The 737 doesn’t have the elbow room you might like and everyone who I fly with who has come off the big Boeings (757, 767, 777) gripes about that. Fine. I’m all about performance and the flight displays, computers, communications and advanced Flight Management Systems in the 737 avionics suite beat the pants off of the 75 and 76–and the HUD tops the 777 as well. Nuff said: gimme the Guppy cockpit over the Maddog. Boeing put everything I need at my fingertips, and it’s all state-of-the-art, whereas Douglas engineers threw everything they could everywhere in the cockpit and slammed the door.

My 737 home.

So there you have it: power, wing, handling and even by a narrow margin, the cockpit too. I’m a Boeing guy, back from wayward days flying Douglas metal from the DC-10 to the MD-80. In my experience as a pilot, in my hours in both Boeing and Douglas jets, I’m grateful to be flying the best jets in the sky. Now you know which are which.

Captain New, Captain You.

First trip of a new month, settling into the cockpit. You’ve flown with this guy before, but after so many years and so many flights, it’s hard to recall exactly when.

The obligatory small talk as you plug in comm connectors and visually scan switch positions, watching the clock, setting the pace for what needs to happen and when.

“Is this your trip all month?” you ask. Next will be where do you live, any kids . . .

He’s got a smile trying to bust loose. “First part of the month,” he says. “Then I go to captain school.”

Now you’re smiling too. “Congrats, amigo,” you say. “I think I’m going to start calling you captain right now. Has a nice ring to it–and you might as well get used to it.”

You let that ride, let him have his moment of pride. And if he’s smart, a moment of well-justified trepidation. Of course, until he actually qualifies and then in the real world sweats bullets in real time at 500 knots with options shrinking . . .

If anyone ever knew ahead of time, they’d walk away, wouldn’t they?

Your smile stays, wishing in your heart the best for him and for the thousands who’ll rely on him once he takes a seat in the “buck stops here” position.

He deserves that, he’s waited twenty years for that fourth stripe. And never mind that he’ll have to earn it, fight for it actually, to prove to instructors, evaluators and the FAA that he deserves it.

Try to think back . . . twenty some years ago, you’re a happy-go-lucky (okay, maybe too much so) DC-10 First Officer, cruising around, loving the senior First Officer schedule–then you get the notice: “You will report to captain upgrade ground school on August 15th . . .”

Ahh, how the world changed in an instant: finally at long last, you reach the top, recognized for who you are and how you fly.

Well, not so fast.

It’s a gauntlet of classes, exams and certifications. Systems to understand, procedures to master and more than anything else, a mindset to claim: what the hell are we doing and why? And if it doesn’t contribute to the safe carriage of our passengers, to the successful, competent and correct touchdown and taxi in for your $60 million dollar jet and the souls on board–you’re the guy to raise the bullshit flag, to stop the freight train and make it work like you want it to, like it’s supposed to. No one else can or will.

If only he knew; if only you’d known.

Hours of study, memorize those litanies, understand the systems behind the procedures; cough up the spectrum of limit numbers on demand: temperatures, pressures (climb? cruise? max?); fuel limits; climb, icing, stopping–more: electrical bypasses; backups, legality and oh god, stay on the right side of the battalion of lawyers looking for your survivors’ assets if you falter.

Remember the checkride? Double-teamed by two Check Airman, but so what? Bring it on: a great first officer on my right, moving from the engineer’s panel to his first window seat, both of us studying, drilling, practicing in the simulator for engine fires and failures and hydraulic leaks and electrical fires and god-knows-what–bring it on.

Then the coup-de-gras: double engine failure, land it safely, ace. And you do.

Smart on their part, as you learn later when after years and over 5,000 captain hours you become the evaluator, the Check Airman, for other pilots upgrading to captain and First Officer: burn it into their minds–you can handle anything and everything. Because they’ll have to; and they’ll know that they can when they must.

And the proud, ultimate moment after engine shutdown on a flight with a hundred forty passengers on board and an FAA evaluator in the jumpseat. New captain candidate wrung out, put through his paces, scrutinized and graded. You as Check Airman in the right seat, acting as copilot but still pilot-in-command for the new guy’s FAA check. The FAA guy gives you a nod (you never lost a captain, ever) and you know.

You ask the FAA evaluator, “Critique?” Usually, if we’ve all done our jobs right–and I never lost a captain–there are some minor critique items. Then he leaves. The silence is big as we gather our flight gear.

“I only have one thing for you,” I say. “You wear these now,” I tell him, handing over the captain’s wings literally and figuratively forged in fire. And from then on, they’re his to wear and earn again every day.

And after years as captain and thousands of hours and more hurdles of selection, training and evaluations, a few of those new captains will become instructors and evaluators themselves–like you did. Passing on the lessons, looking for the awareness, the competence, and the willingness in those who want captains wings to earn the right to wear them. And we all aspire to exactly that–but not everyone makes it.

“Well captain,” I say, back to the present, “how about we run that Before Starting Engines Checklist? Let’s get outta town.” I know he’s pleased at the sound of that “Captain” title, as well he should be.

And soon, if he works very hard and does well, he’ll find out exactly why.

God’s Eye View of The Wild West: Dust Devils and Flaming Canyons.

Sometimes at 40,000 you get the God’s-eye view of the mayhem below. Here’s that view of the dust storms that raked the western United States yesterday–more forecast for today.

Southern Nevada

Amazing sight: wind driving sand in miles-long billows north to south as we approach the Sierras westbound.

It’s an ugly ride below 24,000 feet as the wind drives south at 80-100 knots. But we have everyone seated and we’re delaying our descent into the chop for as long as possible.

Having crossed the Sierras, here’s the San Joaquin Valley looking south from Modesto.

Beautiful, lush farm land just swallowed up in a gale force dust cloud moving north to south through the valley. Let’s zoom in.

It’s a nasty ride from the twenties through ten thousand. But on the coast?  A pristine day with steady but not outrageous winds.

The coast southwest of San Francisco.

Steady seas, white breakers on shore but from the sea wall you can see just steady waves. Finally, destination in sight: the city on the Bay.

Then San Francisco International.

Time for a quick bite at Tyler Florence’s restaurant in Napa Farms Market, one of my faves, in the American Airlines concourse. The three sides special ($10)–Tyler’s amazing macaroni and cheese, roasted asparagus with shaved Parmesan, and potato salad.

And of course, a cream soda–then a Peet’s to go:

Won’t be eating the salmon salad meal served on board on the return leg. And that leg, too, has a great unfolding tapestry, particularly through Utah as the sun sinks lower, etching the canyons in dark relief.

Somehow the beauty of Bryce Canyon looks different with each crossing–the sun angle, the undercast, the winds; always a new canvas spread below.

The show doesn’t end till the sun goes down.

Which of course, it always does. That’s okay, especially having the nose pointed towards home. And besides, the show starts again tomorrow and once again–you have a front row seat. Time for some crew rest; another 320 passengers have tickets tomorrow as well.

“Jetiquette:” Manners for the Refined Flyer.

A few years back, I was flying a charter from Acapulco to DFW. On board were 130-some passengers who had just disembarked from a cruise ship there in the Acapulco harbor. On climb out, I had the passenger address system audio feed in my headset mix just low enough to hear it, but high enough to understand what was going on in back. And I was so shocked I had to take a look for myself.

“I want all of the hitting, pushing and name calling stopped right now,” a flight attendant said firmly, as if talking to a kindergarten class on a field trip. But I saw it with my own eyes: 130 senior citizens, cranky and bickering about god-knows-what. Which proves my main point.

That is, the main hassle for air travelers is other air travelers. Seriously.

And the most important thing for you to remember about your own air travel is that for other air travelers–you are the other air traveler.

Still with me? That was a roundabout way to say that if everyone on board worried about their own behavior, everyone on board would have a better travel experience.  What I’m talking about is “Jetiquette,” or proper manners on a jet. This it would seem is a lost art, but we can resurrect the basics and thereby rescue air travel from the cattle car experience it has devolved into.

Let’s start simple. Here is your on-board world.

Now looking at the spatial dimensions of this area designed for three butts, if you have one of these

don’t even ask, “Do you mind if I put the armrest up?” The answer is “Yes, I mind–I do not want your buttocks flowing over me like hail-damaged Naugahyde for the entire flight.”

Now, continuing with basic Jetiquette, how do you politely get out of your seat? Please tell me you use one or both of those armrests you see there. Because if you’re using the seatback in front of you to hoist your carcass out of your seat, you’re that rude guy on the plane.

The seat in front of you is not your handhold–somebody’s sitting in it and you disturb them rudely if you mess with their seat. Get it? Push yourself up using any part of your seat, don’t pull yourself up using someone else’s. It’s really not that hard–you just have to think about someone else for a change.

Seriously?

Face it, there isn’t much space but what little there is doesn’t all belong to you. So here’s a thought that seemingly doesn’t occur to many folks on-board the jet:

YOU’RE NOT AT HOME.

So basically, keep all of your clothing on–including your shoes. Nothing gets the galley mafia pissed off faster than seeing some slob with his or her feet up against the bulkhead. You will be “that guy,” the one they view with silent but distinct disgust, the one who will only get attention as a revolting example of poor public manners. And while we’re on the subject of bare or stocking feet:

Why do you suppose this guy is wearing layers of protective clothing? It’s because he’s servicing the lavatory where for some unknown reason, supposedly rational people are walking around without shoes. Now, we don’t mind you mopping up the lav floor for us, but it gags everyone on the crew to know you’re doing it.

Would you walk around barefoot here?

That’s pretty much what you’re doing in an airline lav in flight. So don’t.

Finally, let’s talk about personal space. Well, there isn’t any in coach. So Jetiquette demands that you at least keep your bodily smells–especially your breath–either inside at all times, or at least wash before you board and not incidentally, brush your teeth. Those seated next to you will appreciate your basic hygiene–or especially, the lack thereof.

Okay, that’s the basics of Jetiquette and if you’re planning to be aboard for any flight, you need to consider at least this much of the fundamentals.  If we all remember our manners, we can bring back the good old days of air travel that never really were–but the fable gives us all something to gripe about now.

And when all else fails:

Why I Couldn’t Be An Airline Pilot.

When I was a teenager, like all of my close friends I decided I was going to be an airline pilot. But somewhere along the way between our teenage years and the reality of adulthood, one by one my friends all let go of the dream and wandered off to do other things with their lives.

The standard refrain I hear from them–and most guys when they find out I’m an airline pilot–is this: “I was going to be a pilot, but . . .” The “but” ranges from physical deficiencies to fate to a million reasons–all beyond their control–why that never happened.

Which got me to thinking. There are a lot of good reasons why I couldn’t be an airline pilot either. Here they are:

1. I hate mechanical stuff. Always have. In fact, during those same teen years my Saturday mission was to sneak out of the house before my dad could grab me and put me to work as tool caddy for his day long under-the-hood misadventures. Dad decided my brothers and I needed to do the cliche stuff like work on cars in order to grow up “like normal guys.” In my opinion, that was a waste of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon.

“Get over here,” he’d growl, and you were busted. “This will only take forty minutes and you can go do whatever afterward.” Never forty, maybe four hours and forty minutes, then your day was shot. Dammit. So I’d be the reluctant tool lackey as Dad hunkered waist deep in the yawning engine compartment on the Chevy 396 with a four-barrel carb that with the air filter off, looked like a toilet flushing the way it guzzled gas (that was cool) even at idle.

He’d say “Gimme the 3/8 inch box wrench” and I’d hand him pliers, on purpose, thinking the next time he’d remember how pissed off that made him and perhaps he’d select a more competent tool monkey–like either of my brothers. Nope. So besides cursing whatever procedure that despite the tome-sized shop manual just wasn’t working, or never mind three trips to the auto parts store (another special hell) ranting about parts that didn’t fit, he’d have me to blast for being an idiot (What? A screw driver is not a socket wrench?) sous chef under the hood.

So now, flying a complex, state-of-the-art (some are only weeks old–they still have that “new jet” smell) aircraft, when something goes wrong under the hood, I call an expert and let them fix it.

But I fly with a lot of guys who like my dad have wiring diagrams, flow charts, Lamm schematics–they like to get under the hood, yacking with the mechanics. “Shows 28 volt three-phase; now if you lose one phase . . .” blah blah blah is all I’m hearing. Just let me know when it’s fixed. Unlike my dad, they don’t want me handing them wrenches and like his Chevy Caprice, I don’t want to know how it works or even why it works–just let me know when it’s working again. I can fly the hell out of it for sure but the rest is all just details eating up my afternoon. Fix it, I’ll fly it, end of story.

2. I’d prefer to be invisible in uniform. Seriously: I don’t want to play the “this is your captain speaking” Disney character. Darling Bride and I used to fly together as crew, and people would of course see us in our uniforms–her flight attendant polyester hell, my pilot suit–and they’d seem to be watching us like zoo animals to see what we’d do.

So I don’t relish any of the showtime beyond the sanctuary of the bolted shut cockpit door. Walking through the terminal, it’s like encountering a pack of stray dogs: don’t make eye contact; just go about your business in an unobtrusive, non-threatening way and they’ll leave you alone.

Somebody else is going to have to do the playacting for the public; I’m not good answering questions about the bathroom, yucking it up about flying, or hearing about how (this is standard) “we dropped a thousand feet straight down” on some other flight. Doing the pilot thing as a pilot in the air–that is my only concern. Don’t worry about a thing, it’s taken care of–just keep your seat belt fastened and like Lewis CK says, “You watch a movie, take a dump and you’re in LA.” Just don’t expect a show before or after.

3. I really don’t get along with pilots. That goes with the “invisible” thing above: don’t play the role, don’t relish the identity. No cheesy aviators sunglasses, no 1980s-vintage mustache, no vanity plate like “JetJock” or bumper sticker that says, “My other car is a Boeing-737” or god forbid, this:

This is actually a sticker on sale at the Crew Outfitters store at DFW Airport. Which means some douchebag pilot thought it was a “cute idea,” (what the hell is “giggity giggity?”) and enough are actually buying the sticker to make it worthwhile. Wonder why I want to be invisible?

And in the cockpit, I do not want to take turns parroting whatever talk radio host is the hero of the week, don’t need to analyze the stock market that none of us ever really has any real expertise in, and I definitely don’t want to hear about the merits of home schooling (why is it that some many pilots’ wives are browbeaten into this?) as THE way to raise the only decent kids in the world after “the balloon goes up.” Have a weapons cache ready? A shack in Montana? Just keep it to yourself. Want to talk about sports? Fine: how the heck did Sabathia hit the Yankees for $25 million a year when he looks like he ate everything on the Dairy Queen menu every day since the All-Star break?

Nice gut.

See, I can be sociable. But beyond sports talk, I’m completely avoiding discussion of The Big Three: politics, religion and god forbid, pilot contract talks. Other than conversation related to actually flying the jet, I’m a big fan of what Archie Bunker used to call “A little bit of shut up around here.”

So there you have it: like most guys, there are a lot of good reasons why I couldn’t be an airline pilot, or at least not one like you’d see on TV or in the movies with the cliches and stereotypes. But when the weather’s crap and your pink butt is in the back of the plane heading for the runway at 150 miles per hour, I will guarantee you a safe landing. I’ve got over thirty years of experience and practice doing exactly that.

But afterward, it’s best for all concerned if I just slip out the door unnoticed before anyone can corral me into spending my time off being somebody I’m clearly not. If only my dad had figured that out so many Saturdays ago.

Riding Rockets: Beyond “The Right Stuff” to The Real Stuff.

Years ago, Tom Wolf gave us The Right Stuff, an outsider’s fictionalized view of the early NASA astronaut world. Today Mike Mullane blows that to pieces with the real stuff: Riding Rockets, a white hot, insider’s first person view of life and death as a shuttle astronaut.

Like the author’s life, the story is an unlikely, relentlessly driven paradox of impossible factors that leaves the reader exhausted but fulfilled, terrorized while simultaneously enchanted, disgusted yet amused and ultimately, completely amazed. Mullane the aviator reminds me of a similarly high octane squadron mate of mine who went full-throttle against all obstacles. He’d demonstrate his wrath at even the normal delay associated with crossing a runway by doing so when cleared with a kick of afterburner.

Mike Mullane has led his whole professional life in afterburner and the book unfolds accordingly, so strap in tight and hang on: the high-arcing trajectory ranges from the bureaucratic depths of “AsCan” (“Astronaut Candidate,” impossible not to read as “ass can” in your head) drudgery, through the abject terror of the controlled explosion that was a shuttle launch, to the soaring euphoria of the orbital view and every-ninety-minute glorious sunrises offered in spectacular detail. The writing makes the experience visceral and gut-wrenching: you’re not reading; you’re riding rockets.

And therein lies yet another major paradox of this book: in Mullane NASA finally—albeit unknowingly—launched a poet into orbit. When Apollo astronaut Pete Conrad was asked what it was like to walk on the moon, he reportedly answered, “It was great—I really enjoyed it.” Period.

By contrast, Mullane boosts the reader into a loftier orbit: Riding Rockets doesn’t describe or tell; you don’t read or hear—rather, the reader lives the painstakingly and beautifully constructed engineer-meets-aesthete (finally!) prose. The reader inhabits every dimension of the astronaut experience in firsthand, nuanced but no-nonsense and often poignant detail.

And yet paradoxically, there’s no denying the subtext of political and sexist incorrectness that was the Neanderthal mother tongue of those of us who were military aviators in the last century. But even that’s nothing but cringe-worthy authenticity—the more provocative political incorrectness is in Mullane sharing the bald-faced truth of the politics, pettiness and even foolishness of NASA management in life or death issues of safety, risk management, practicality and common sense that resulted in pointless deaths that nearly dismantled the space shuttle program. Strictly political NASA stunts like putting non-professional astronauts—including congressmen, even icon John Glenn—aboard to the detriment of safety, morale, professionalism and ultimately, risk, exposes the NASA management innards as malignant, dysfunctional and only marginally competent to run a complex space vehicle year after year.

Which raises the ultimate and heretofore largely unexamined astronaut conundrum, as the reader lives out the blurred borders between commitment, dedication and obsession: the driving force wasn’t the astronauts’ fear that they could very well lose their lives in a shuttle launch; rather, it was their fear that they couldn’t live their lives if they didn’t. That, plus the inside look at the families’ launch and pre-launch hell, is a sobering, heartrending experience that the reader—if not every American citizen—should take to heart when looking back on the men, women and families of the space shuttle.

Maybe Mullane does too good a job of letting the reader rummage around  inside his head. You can’t help but recall the Melville classic he claims—probably correctly—that no one has ever read. Nonetheless, one painful fact of “Moby Dick” is that the first hundred pages teach you how to read the last three hundred. Looking for the whale tale in Riding Rockets, a wonderfully layered and nuanced narrative, you discern ultimately the sincere and higher truth behind the crude, abrasive exterior of bravado and testosterone-driven veneer that covers a thoughtful, values-driven core of humanity nonetheless.

So in Mullane’s focus on one of his “TFNG” colleague’s untimely death in a shuttle tragedy and the years leading up to it, the reader is torn—probably deliberately, by the author–over reading between the lines . . . or not. And yet, living out his experience, you can’t possess even a modicum of decency without strictly honoring the narrative for what it is: a moving tribute to a fallen comrade; no less—and no more.

From the desert southwest to West Point to Europe, space, the White House and back–that’s the exhausting, rewarding, provocative and inspiring journey that is Riding Rockets. In the end, you arrive with Mullhane at a priceless retrospective pinnacle, rich with emotion and understanding of the epic undertaking that was the space shuttle,  generously shared by a deft, driven, talented (finally!) writer with “the right stuff” who delivers the real stuff.

At long last. A must read for all space program followers; a should-read for everyone else.

Mullane, Mike. Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut, New York: Scribner, 2006.

For more information on Astronaut Mike Mullane, click here.

Coming next in a few days: back into the left seat—

Mile High Club: Death and Romance in the Outhouse.

Of all the useless 1960s air travel nostalgia hangovers, this is the worst. No, not the idea of food in coach–although that’s definitely nostalgic, unless you have a major credit card ready for the on-board data reader to deduct the cash before you even break the plastic wrap. Want to eat but don’t want to pay? You should have brought your own lunch, pal.

Okay, I buy the turkey sandwich pictured here even when there's a First Class meal catered for the flight crew--it's excellent.

No, not food–what I’m talking about is the bogus urban legend surrounding–inexplicably, at least to one who actually knows what we’re talking about–the aircraft lavatory. There it is: the on-board toilet and the closet where it’s secreted away.

Which leads me to ask: what the hell don’t I understand about this? What is the fascination with the filthiest, foulest, most disgusting six square feet on board an airliner? Namely, this:

Sure, there are some flimsy walls partitioning off this mess–and your mess–from the general public. And believe me, they ARE flimsy walls too–weight is fuel burn which is cost in flight. But shrewd aircraft designers rely on the ambient background noise of flight (you know: jet engines, 300 mile and an hour wind noise) to cover up your bodily noises on the can, much like the lame exhaust fan in a tiny apartment is intended as background noise so you can crank away without disgusting a cohabitant. Lesson for the wise: don’t do anything in an aircraft lav on the ground that you don’t want others to hear. Because they will, especially as they troop past on boarding, and they’ll give you that look when you step out.

Do you get it yet? We’re basically talking about this:

Being confused with this:

Which is apparently another legendary site involving the inexplicably pajama-clad Crypt Keeper (above) and teenagers or other foolish yet financially astute bimbos. So here’s my point: the lav, like Hef’s geriatric boudoir, is actually the last place anyone with an awareness of reality would have anything approaching conjugal relations.

Sure, people say they’ve “done it” in an airliner lav.

But again, it’s as outdated as the prop job in the drawing above, never mind the natty dress and Pepsodent grins. Because besides the issue of today’s cramped lav (space is $, remember), there’s the detail of sanitation: it’s as clean as your average outhouse, and often smells like one. Because either you have the swirling tank of port-o-john water below, or on more modern jets, no water at all–just a non-stick coating with fragrant skid marks anyway:

So anyone who says they have joined “The Mile High Club” is either A) Lying, B) Disgusting, or  C) Has lost the will to live. And here’s the dirt on option “C:” there is no supplemental oxygen in the lav.

Read the fine print: some restrictions apply.

That means that no matter what purpose there is in your lav visit, in case of a rapid depressurization, you’ll need to immediately get out of the lav and grab one of the hangy-down masks before you lose consciousness. As my keenly observant son (he took the above picture aboard a foreign carrier) mused, you have to decide if you want to take the time to pull your pants up and stumble nearly hypoxic into the aisle, or bolt out with your pants down, business unfinished and hope someone would help you anyway to don a mask as if you weren’t naked from the waist down.

In all probability, you’re meeting your maker like Elvis’s last public appearance: face down, pants down, toilet unflushed. Now that’s the stuff of legends, right?

So my point is this: never mind the folklore and urban legends–avoid the lav at all costs. Hold it, go before you board, whatever and if you do have to go into the lav make it quick and then get back to your seat.

To me, that’s just common sense. But if in any way this is news to you, I recommend this icon of travel nostalgia:

At least you’ll be able to breathe no matter what demonstration of disgustingly poor judgment you’re finding necessary to pursue in the can.

Bon voyage, and don’t forget to wash your hands.

Flying into the Nor’easter October 29th, 2011: juggle a thousand moving parts.

Ah, the point of universal equality: all of the alternates you’ve loaded into the Flight Management Computer doing a thousand calculations of time, distance, airspeed and fuel flow have reached the same number: 9.5. Which is 9,500 pounds of fuel on the deck at each–if we leave the holding pattern we’re in over the Shenandoah mountains of Virginia.

Yes, that’s a blanket of snow down there, and uncommon October dumping of thick, wet flakes wreaking havoc on the surface: fall foliage still on the trees gathers the fat flakes in a blanket that snaps branches and snags power lines.

The alternates now line up for a second with the same arrival fuel and they’ll tick down that way as we hold, geographically in the middle point between Baltimore, Syracuse, Boston and our destination, LaGuardia.

You tell the First Officer, “When the fuel prediction reaches 7,000 fuel on deck–we divert.” Because 7 eventually shrinks to 5 due to the air traffic glut all competing to get to either a destination or alternate. The fuel prediction should come with a little caveat, “results may vary.” We ain’t stupid–done this a few times before.

Our flight 9409 from Miami checks in on frequency, entering a holding pattern. “We have the Miami Dolphins on board,” the pilot says, pleading with New York Center, “Anything you can do to get us into any of the New York airports would be appreciated.” Must be coming up to play either the Giants or the Jets.

We laugh in our cockpit. “We have the Omaha Women’s Bowling and Quilt Team on board,” I say cross-cockpit, “anything you could do . . .” But New York Center has no options: “Diverts allowed south only,” comes the answer. “Or maybe we can get you Boston or Hartford.”

Crap–looks like Syracuse is out for us. Didn’t want to go there anyway–too small, slow turnaround–but it takes away from my perfect geographical display of options. I like options. Okay, add Richmond. The First Officer is busy reading out loud the terminal forecast for our various divert options, but I tune him out–I don’t give a damn about the forecast an hour ago for an hour from now. But it gives him something to do.

We’re cleared down track, exiting the holding pattern–but don’t get your hopes up: that just means someone in the holding stack 70 miles ahead finally said “uncle,” reaching their fuel bingo, and diverted. A dozen jets are heading for your stack and the controller is shooing you off to the next sector.

Now that’s funny: starting to see holding? We’re in a holding pattern. But there’s the bad news: JFK is landing south which conflicts with the LaGarbage traffic pattern landing north. Crap.

Why does JFK get priority? Because it has a couple dozen westbound transatlantic widebodies inbound and they’ve been in the air for 5 or more hours already. LaGuardia with it’s postage stamp sized runway (7,000 feet versus 13,000 at Kennedy) cannot  land with tailwinds due to stopping distance. So if Kennedy is landing south, LaGuardia arrivals are shut down.

“I can get you Boston or LaGuardia, eventually,” says the air traffic controller to our Dolphins team charter. “Standby,” comes the tense answer, and I know why.

We already did the math: we’ll weigh 132,000 pounds on landing; the runway is wet, so we need 5,660 feet to stop. Gives me 1, 400 as a safety margin–which will require all other perfection–screw the charts–in my mind: not only no tailwind, have to have  some headwind and no bad braking reports or we go to Kennedy (sorry Lufthansa). But the 757 landing distance number will be different, stopping the jet may be a problem. He’s looking closely at his Boeing chart, no doubt.

Which is another piece of the puzzle we both did as captains before launching off into the Nor’easter: take more fuel for increased loiter time, but then know you’ll deal with a heavier landing weight on a crappy surface due to the freak snow storm. Clearly, fuel wins, but he’s dealing with the stopping distance problem. And Newark is flying a complex RNAV approach that I don’t believe the 757 can do. Plus, its minimums are so high and the ceiling so low–it probably won’t work out anyway. That just sends you off on a gas-guzzling low altitude divert.

There’s a screaming headline in the weather-related alphabet soup: 1/4 mile visibility in snow and fog at LaGarbage. And previous American jets reported the ceiling really at 300 feet. Left quartering crosswind  at 14 knots; you get about ten seconds to see the runway, line up and find the touchdown spot.

Jill calls from the cabin: “We have an elderly woman who stepped out of  the lav feeling dizzy; she passed out and we’re giving her oxygen.” First officer stops reciting the weather forecasts and adds, “I sometimes pass out after a huge dump too;” I laugh, Jill doesn’t.

“Keep us posted,” I say, adding one more moving part to the dozens in play: medical attention for the woman, quick landing if she gets worse.

My magic fuel numbers have shifted dramatically: the closer south alternates show less arrival fuel than the more distant and verboten northern divert options. Why? The 125 tailwind we’re riding. That forces a Hobson’s choice: divert earlier to a southern divert base arriving with less fuel into worse weather; or hope to sneak in after the last international Kennedy arrival. If you can wait. Do you feel lucky today, punk?

“I may be able to get one more jet into LaGuardia,” the controller tells the Miami boys. Sure: football takes priority over all things, at least in the northeast. But with the powerlines down, they can’t watch anyway, right?

Jill calls from the back again: “Our lady on oxygen just passed out again. The number four flight attendant is also a nurse, says she’s probably having some blood sugar problems.”

“She’s a nurse?” the F/O asks; “Could she look at this rash on my butt when she gets done there?”

I laugh but Jill doesn’t. “We’ll get her on the gate as soon as possible,” I promise. Still laughing, I tell the F/O cross cockpit. “Let’s grab that one spot he’s talking about–declare a medical emergency and tell them we need LaGarbage.”

We set up the approach; one shot, zero tailwind, some headwind, reliable braking action report or we go right to Kennedy either on the approach or on the missed approach (again, sorry, Lufthansa; this will only take a minute and we’ll be out of your way).

Sit the cabin crew down; the radar is showing angry purple in the frontal clash ahead and below. All checklists done early; anti-ice on. Hang on–she’s gonna buck.

Crappy ride through tangled air: a hundred knot wind out of the south clashes with the nor’easter roaring in with icy air; we’re in the atmospheric rapids, blinded by driven snow which has also not incidentally given me vertigo: looking through the geometric structure of the Heads Up Display on the glass before me, the horizontal snow has my senses screaming that we’re in a left bank of 20 to 30 degrees. And I’m hand flying because the speed changes have the nose pitching more than I’m willing to tolerate at a low altitude as the autopilot struggles to correct.

Patience, concentration; do the job. A glance at the ground speed shows 95 knots; airspeed is 135 knots; Mr. Math says it a 45 knot Nor’easter is winning near the surface. And the 95 knots is making this take a lot longer than I’d like.

The radio altimeter is calling out altitude until go-around; we’re down to a hundred feet above and still in the muck.

“Ground contact,” my F/O says; I pick it up peripherally but not ahead. There–the glow of lead in lights. “I have the runway;” I announce.

“Minimums,” the audible radio altimeter declares. Barely time to check the sink rate–god I love me some Heads Up Display–kick in the rudder to track the nose straight ahead; right main gear, then the left; the nose wants to slam down as max autobrakes grabs with 3,000 psi of hydraulics, but I hold the yoke in my lap, steering  with my feet. We stop.

“Tell ’em the braking action is good,” I tell the F/O as we start running the after landing checklist. That’ll help the next guys in for planning purposes. Now all we have to do is park, turn around, and fight our way back into the air through de-ice and crappy runway problems.

But that headache is an hour away. A cup of coffee is waiting in the terminal–we’ll worry about the rest later.

Lt. JetHead: Something Special In The Heir.

I never claimed to have served in the military. Rather, I was an Air Force officer, like my father before me and my son right now. Said Lt. Jethead recently returned from from three years of duty in Europe where he’s amassed thousands of travel miles and as many hours of adventure in faraway lands. When he related this bizarre airborne experience in the skies over eastern Europe earlier this month, I told him he HAD to write it up for the JetHead archives.

A note of warning: this ain’t a tame ride, which you wouldn’t expect from a twenty-five-year-old for whom life isn’t, in W.M. Rossetti’s words, so much a bit in the teeth as a spur to the flanks. And I haven’t and won’t change a word, so if you have delicate sensibilities–just don’t read any further. Here’s a safe, convenient redirect–click here.

Still reading? Good. Here it is:

It started with a dance, the choreographed rhythmic movements of the three scorching blondes in the aisle. I don’t always watch the safety briefs but the mid-cabin Flight Attendant had commanded my attention.  She did not keep your gaze, she took it. One excruciatingly tall heel on each side of the aisle, a stern smile, and perfectly in unison with her colleagues, emergency instructions were delivered. This must be the “way it used to be.”  As we often say of the girls in Ukraine: “the only thing higher than her aspirations are her cheekbones.”

Aerosvit flight 13 is climbing to a low cruise from Kiev Boryspil to Odessa, Ukraine and after taking a few moments to appreciate ummm… What I’ll call the skillful distribution of drinks and snacks, I dove into my already-started Kyiv Post.

To demonstrate the veracity of this story, here are my qualifications: none. I’d tell you I’ve flown thousands of times, but the truth is; I haven’t. I’ve sat in the back…and done nothing… (Usually F, but “the back,” nonetheless) while someone else has flown me thousands of times. A certified ass-sitter. I’d offer the 60 some hours of single-engine piston time I have, though that’s also irrelevant when you’re sitting in 25C, and the “I’m a private pilot and I KNEW something was wrong” doesn’t fly either, pun intended. Or worse yet, I recently heard someone feign importance with that disgusting sentence, but referred to himself as a “GA-VFR pilot.”  Go ahead; tell the FAA you’d like “one general aviation-visual flight rules, to go please”. Incredible.

So now you know I don’t know what I’m talking about, I’ll tell you about repeatedly clearing my ears. I became extremely uncomfortable and began all the tricks to equalize pressure. I was fruitlessly jawing so hard it was embarrassing and I turned in towards the window as to not show off my gaping grill and 7-day old road breath to my co-pax. After setting my newspaper on my lap, and jawing my gaping grill and 7-day old road breath at my good friend Joe in 25B, the oxygen masks dropped. We exchanged looks thinking it was just another Ukrainian malfunction of life…but we were brought back by the shouts in Russian and my personal safety demonstrator diving from the aisle for dangling rubber.

All of my training in ass-sitting has taught me to firmly pull the mask towards me to begin the flow of oxygen, first put on my mask, then help small children and those around me. Joe, you’ll have to wait. Trendsetter I am, I was the first in my row to firmly pull one of the four masks toward me (there are four in case of lap children or someone in the aisle.)  The video makes it sound like there’s a chance you might not “start the flow of oxygen” but unless you’re very tall this probably is not the case. The mask falls a few inches, and it’s not the O2 line itself that needs a tug, that might even be dangerous. Rather, it’s connected by a thin wire, holding the mask in place, and connected to the system, starting only the masks that have been firmly pulled.

Masks on, O2 is flowing. Or is it? A thousand safety briefs and videos are now bouncing in my slightly hypoxic head. Is it “even though oxygen is flowing the plastic bag WILL not inflate?” or “MAY not inflate.” I think I settled on WILL not for some reason. Now we have a problem, my bag DID inflate, so much so it looked like packing material that would startled your cat if popped. What to do…my bag’s inflated…crowd sourcing shows Joe’s bag is paper flat. He’s sucking wind (presumably, at this point) a la Seabiscuit. I would later find out he had the same internal conundrum and figured HIS bag was the problem because it was different than mine. He later told me he was considering swapping his mask for the unused fourth in our row, an idea that crossed my mind as well.  Using my ravishing common sense, I assessed that not only was I still alive, but conscious as well. If it ain’t broke… I would later learn that the whole reason for the “bag MAY not inflate” speech is because of a flight where pax tried to switch masks, as we were thinking, and passed out. While I don’t know Joe’s exact reason for not swapping out, and would love to tout my continued smartness, as a decorated combat veteran with more time in Iraq than you spent in jr high, and the bronze star to prove it, he makes good calls.

Tingly toes, fingers and some passed out neighbors, I am remembering: “breathe normally.”  Got that, I’m keeping myself calm and taking normal breaths. I’d also learn later the bag holds oxygen you’re not breathing in, as well as while exhaling — hence my punching bag, and Joe’s sad sack. Next time somebody needs a “wasting oxygen” joke, it won’t be about me. Joe is rustling in his pocket for his camera, my chemistry prowess (a C- in Mr. Listort’s 10^th grade chemistry class, which would have been a D except that he never wanted to see me again…) thinks this might be a bad idea: static, oxygen, etc. At the very least I must have given him a look that said “poor form” and the camera went down, for now. In retrospect I’m sure there is much more static and electrical activity taking place than a digital camera…and if we had gone down like Helios 522, all I did was deny investigators images of the almost dead.  We were now on our “emergency descent” from FL240, and while not exactly the most lethal altitude, somewhere between Kilimanjaro and Everest, I appreciate a good sense-of-urgency, and it seemed I could have walked down faster.  Nothing to do but trust in Boeing, as I’ve been instructed numerous times by Capt. Jethead, I’ll calmly wait it out, happy to be flying American and not Tupolev.

The flight attendants are walking down the aisle, speaking in Russian two or three rows at a time, inciting a cascade of yellow masks up, over, and off dizzy heads. I reached my hand towards the aisle, “In English, please.” Commanding the kind of attention Air New Zealand would hire Richard Simmons or body paint for she curtly mentioned we were “below safety level.”

I noticed we never turned around, and I hear a PA regarding “Odessa” and “apologize for en-kon-veen-yance.”  In some twisted way I’m relieved we continued on, what a hassle getting on a new and functional airplane would have been.  Thank you to a culture of instant gratification for making me so impatient. Turning to investigate some raucous Russian conversation behind me, two rows back some guys are passing around a bottle of wine. A gift from Aerosvit? Where’s ours? A smuggled 750ml bottle and wine key? Who cares. Applause erupts as the mains touch tarmac again in what was not a smooth or straight landing. You idiots…we’re still in one of the most dangerous phases of flight…

Rounding out the experience we board a dilapidated bus, bottoming out over every bump on tarmac that could be a huge tile floor, with grass for grout. Kicked off near the fence line I found a new meaning for gate; literally, an open gate to the sea of gypsy cab drivers not allowed in the terminal that we were also not permitted to enter. A local article would claim passengers were offered precautionary medical checks. Any US or major European carrier would have offered this, refunds, skymiles, you name it. The cold former-soviet reality: “Ve delivered jou alive, vould jou like something else?”

Your "gate"

 

Dog days at the plush Odessa airport

Greedy Westerners we are, we did want more. A short stay in the near-Turkish quarter of Odessa, then a harrowing, yet pressurized short seven hours on an overcrowded Moldavian minibus to Chisinau.  On Sunday after doing battle at the Chisinau bus station, fighting to avoid not only Transnistria, but also the smugglers route that goes much further west, near Romania, on our way back to Odessa.

A quick bite at a favorite fish restaurant, not only serving seafood favorites, but allowing you the full goldfish effect of everyone staring at your westerness, and we’re on our way back to the airport progress forgot. The analog arrivals and departures board would have you believe you’re in the train station.  A repeat performance of the same shaky bus, delivered us to the same parking spot, to the very same aircraft, UR-AAK.

Excuse me, is this my flight?

Poetically sitting in nearly the same seats, reading the same Kyiv Post, there’s no better way to get back on the horse.  The best part of the character building experiences this weekend – both in the air and with 27 people on a bus designed with 19 seats, while dodging livestock and frequently stopping to sell auto parts brought across the border – was not as my obnoxious friend (we’ll call Brian, because that’s his name), shouted, “You had no choice, you couldn’t get away!” True, but not only could we not get away, we asked for this. We bought and paid for those tickets on a Ukrainian carrier, and spend about $6 on that bus ride, where the lone Americans were shoved in the back.

Unable to come to a consensus on why we love traveling the back roads of Eastern Europe, we often use the adage; travel expands your boundaries, tests your limits. I believe it’s safe to say this weekend we crashed headfirst through those boundaries.  One of our favorite comedians, Nick Swardson, frequently jokes he wants to start a game show with terrible prizes, such as; live wolves, trips to Iraq, etc. The prize leading the victorious contestant to question; “did I lose?” So why the hell are we in Moldova…did we lose?

*********************

I was hesitant at first to write about this dull story, but at the urging of the creative team over at Jethead, and a sudden burst of energy after reading a sign telling me to kiss my smelly ass goodbye in two languages on my final intra-European flight, I succumbed. After all, this doesn’t happen every day, despite the hairy situations I’m often in. I’ve thrown around the idea of starting my own blog to document the mundane details of bribing Bloc policemen, eating pigeons in Morocco, hitchhiking in Ladas older than me, staying in the crosswalks while in communist countries, and the like. For now the world will have to settle for this short installment, and another guest post at the exciting blog of the beautiful GoingGigler.

Finish your business with dignity and die, survive covered with humiliation and.... Decisions, decisions...