Big, big decisions. Sue and I don’t get that much time off, so we spend a lot of time planning which tarmac we want to spend our vacation on this year.
I like O’Hare, but Sue prefers Atlanta for some reason. Maybe we could compromise. Who doesn’t love Newark? It’s easy to get to, and it’s got that nifty monorail that you can watch from your seat in the plane.
“What about Dulles?” I ask. “Remember that time we spent nine hours out there that Memorial Day weekend? It was only 92 F outside, but inside it must have 108 F. It was like being in the Sahara. Too bad the pictures didn’t come out. The image of the flight attendants holding down that guy who was missing his mother’s funeral was pretty dramatic. And entertaining. Better than anything you’d see in Cancun. They gave us two free tickets to the LAX tarmac, which we should use before the airline goes belly up, by the way. They’ll be no good then.”
“I know,” says Sue, “But sitting on the tarmac in California scares me. What if there’s an earthquake? It could shake the overflowing toilets into the cabin and spoil everyone’s fun.”
“What about Paris? Or Barcelona? I hear great things about their airports.”
“There’s a problem. I don’t think they let their planes sit on the tarmac for nine or ten hours. Once you leave this country, you’re pretty much at the mercy of those radical, overseas governments. I don’t even think they allow overbooking.”
“The Commies.”
“You know the great thing about tarmac vacations? You don’t have to pack any luggage, you don’t have to rent a car, you don’t have to reserve a hotel room. It’s all right there for us in one little package. About the only expense is bribing the flight attendants for food and water.”
“Yeah, I kept expecting to see Jeff Probst from “Survivor” come down the aisles and separate us into tribes. That’s part of the fun, when people start to go stir crazy.”
“If only we could buy some coach airline seats for our lanai.”
