I'm back from Linda's wedding extravaganza, which was a quick lesson in Florida rainstorms and the persnickety nature of weather in the former penal colony. Getting down there, though, I was particularly proud of myself for reserving an aisle seat in the third row of the plane. Seat 3C is probably one of the best seats in the house, and of course some Hee Haw tried to take it from me.
Getting to any airport is never a treat, but my ride in was especially a pain in the ass, given that I had to get to Newark. One cab ride, train and air tram later, I was at the gate and boarding the plane. It was on time. I had a chick lit novel to read. Life was good.
As I approached my seat I noticed that I would be sharing the row with a young mother and her two children, one of which was a two-year-old who didn't have a seat. He sat in her lap. Odd, but initially I thought nothing of it. After all, traveling with small children is no picnic.
Out of left field a guy in a white Gilligan's Island hat appeared before me. Below is our exchange that almost led to full out air rage.
Gilligan: Excuse me, could I switch seats with you? I have a window, and you have the aisle. I would like to sit with my family.
Me: No way. I have long legs. I need an aisle.
I thought that was the end of it, and then Gilligan started trying to play musical chairs with everyone around me, including the morbidly obese man in the aisle across from from me, who clearly wasn't moving unless the plane was being evacuated. It was obvious Gilligan didn't take airplanes too often. Otherwise he would know that you can't just swap seats, especially aisle seats. Greyhound, this was not.
Unsurprisingly, no one relented their seat. Finally I said, "You know, if you wanted an aisle seat you should have reserved one."
Gilligan went back to his seat and mumbled something about me being rude.
I didn't go all the way out to the Newark airport to be insulted by a five foot two man in a fisherman's hat. My inner Rosie Perez circa
Do The Right Thing came out. I stood up and asked him if there was going to be a problem. Hand gestures were involved.
The morbidly obese man and his wife saw that I was out for blood, and assured me that Gilligan would keep quiet. Again, he didn't, and he told me that I was rude.
"Maybe you should have planned your trip better," I said, and sat down to read
Chasing Harry Winston for the next three hours. It was bliss.
Gilligan's wife sat staring straight ahead for the duration of the trip with a large toddler in her lap. I couldn't tell if she was embarassed by her husband or angry at me. I'm guessing embarassed by her husband. The toddler really needed his own seat. How they got that past security, I'll never know.
Moral of the story: Book the seat you want, and if you see me in seat 3C, I prefer not to be disturbed.
