Oceania: Day 1: 7-3-94: Airplanes And Airports: New York To California To Hawaii

11:35 a.m. (Eastern Time) / 8:35 a.m. (Pacific Time) En Route To LAX

Well, in the immortal words of Whitesnake, here I go again . . . (on my own, no less). (Has it really been a year, already?! It seems like only yesterday that my hiking boots were wet with Alaskan snow!). I am presently on board Tower Air flight #21 en route to Hawaii via LAX, the official start of my South Pacific holiday, but as you'll soon learn, it wasn't easy getting to this point.

Let's back up a bit. First of all, you're probably wondering about my choice of airlines. Never heard of Tower Air, you say?-- well, neither had I, until the wonderfully patient Council Travel travel agent (Lillian Cordova) suggested it as an alternative to the literally "sky-high" prices of the major players. I must admit, I had my doubts at first, but their 10-year service record, combined with their rock-bottom rates ($300 round trip -- less than half the ticket fee of the competition), quickly won me over.

However, it didn't take long for me to learn the sorry truth to that old adage, "you get what you pay for" -- in fact it became apparent as soon as we arrived at the airport. Clearly, the airline made up for lower ticket prices by paying minimal overhead, because they were situated in a decidedly obscure section of the airport (an area I've since dubbed "the low rent district.") It took my father and I a good 20 minutes to find the location of the Tower Air terminal. Every time we tried to follow the big, fluorescent lime T's (would-be guide markers, though they were spaced too intermittently to be of much use), we either dead-ended or went in circles. I had a nightmarish vision of us continuing our aimless wandering around JFK, while my 747 went up with the early morning sun. Finally, though, we "followed the yellow-green T" all the way to the Tower of Oz.

This is where it starts to get interesting. I hugged Dear Old Dad & said Aloha (as you can see, I was already in a multicultural mood), strapped on my canvas "mobile home" and headed into the terminal:

. . .The first thing I saw was a meandering, sluggish, DMV-sized Check-In line.

. . .The first thing I heard was the lackluster voice (temporarily derailing my Wizard of Oz analogy) of the airline steward announcing General Boarding for flight #21 to Los Angeles.

. . . The first thing I thought was, Oh, Shit!

So now I'd made it to the Emerald City (see I'm right back on track again) only to have the Hot-Air Balloon start leaving without me. No! This can't be happening! I can't miss my flight! My vacation couldn't, wouldn't, SHOULDN'T start out like this -- and thankfully, it didn't, though it was a close call. You see, when I eventually made it to the head of the line, I threw my backpack on the conveyor belt, grabbed my boarding pass and raced up the stairs and through security (where the lace holders on my hiking boots set off the metal detector, causing a minor -- but still panic inducing -- delay). Finally, sweating and panting, I made it to the gate . . . only to be faced with another huge line! That same expressionless voice came on, this time announcing "final boarding." It was at about this time that I realized the terminal is aptly named, for I was quite sure it would be the death of me. But after a while, I calmed down and examined the situation logically: I figured if all these people were waiting to get on, there was little chance the plane was going anywhere anytime soon. (I mean, it seemed very unlikely that they would only let half the people board and then say, "sorry, the rest of you are too late -- go home." Even my luck wasn't that bad!)

So I waited with the scores of other would-be passengers. Corralled as we were in between zigzagging metal bars, you would have thought we were at Disney World waiting to board a popular attraction. Only, our final destination was a tad less exciting than Space Mountain (although, as it turned out, equally as bumpy). While on line, I passed the time by talking to Josh and Mark, two teachers from a Jewish Academy in NYC. Josh and I got on especially well, and we compared our teaching situations. He teaches over 120 7th & 8th graders (with an average class size of 25) every day -- I inwardly blushed before meekly mentioning my sole class of 15 kindergartners.

Eventually, the Disney flashback ended, and the line started moving. When I walked into the airplane, my mouth dropped open. The pilot was dressed like a bus driver and the plane itself looked like the inside of a NYC subway car, hanging metal loops and all. (Is this some kind of joke (?), I thought -- saving a few hundred dollars isn't worth risking my life in this thing!) A split second later, I realized that this wasn't the plane, but indeed, a shuttle bus -- our ground transportation to the actual aircraft (Phew!). I chided myself for my momentary lapse of reason (copyright 1987/Pink Floyd). How could I have thought this was the airplane?! (Obviously, I was more stressed out than I thought!)

Anywho, the bus scooted over to the plane and we began to board. I waited impatiently behind a man who left his baggage cart blocking the aisle, while he rifled through his pockets. A friendly Rastafarian and I quietly grumbled at how inconsiderate the man was, until he decided to give up his search and continue moving. I traveled no more than 6 feet before the quest for my seat was stymied by the very same man and his oversized cart. This time, my nerves frayed and my feet sore, I excused myself as I edged past him and finally made it to my seat (38 H), where I am presently writing this stirring drama.

The two seats next to me are occupied by a couple (Shawna & Scott), who are travel veterans themselves, having lived on both the East and West coasts, as well as places in between and beyond. They have lived in New York for the past few years and are presently heading to their old California stomping grounds for a quick vacation, before moving permanently to Philadelphia (coincidentally, just a couple of buildings down from where Jason lives on Chestnut Street). Scott will be attending U of P's Wharton Business School for his MBA. Shawna works for Merril Lynch and teaches Sunday School. They've both been to Hawaii (Scott lived there for several years), and they have given me some great ideas about what to see and do.

Having traveled via Tower Air before, Scott and Shawna knew all too well the extreme extent of their cost-cutting measures. In fact, they informed me and my grumbling belly about one final surprise -- there was no meal on this cross-country flight (!). But, they hastened to add, the airline did serve a "light snack." Two hours later, a stale croissant, a cup of raspberry yogurt and a kid-size apple juice arrived -- I wolfed it all down in record time and resigned myself to drinking saliva for the remaining 4 hours.

(My hand's starting to throb, so let's pick this up later. . .)

7:31 p.m. (Pacific Time) At LAX

The plane landed safely and promptly at 11:15 a.m. (Pacific/Local time). However, by the time I finally got my luggage, it was closer to 12:15! (Maybe they could only afford one baggage handler?) Anyway, I was now faced with a dilemma (not my first of the trip and most assuredly, not my last). My LAX to Hawaii flight didn't depart until 9:30 p.m, leaving me with the mother of all layovers. Hmmm . . . what to do, what to do? Scott and Shawna suggested locking up my bag, hopping on a taxi and lazing the day away at the beach. I had to admit it was a good plan -- unfortunately, I had to nix it do to overcast skies (I didn't want to risk getting caught in the rain). So, with nowhere to go, I had no choice but to stay.

My mind raced to think of some interesting and/or constructive way to fritter away nine full hours. I came up with nary a one . . . well, one -- I was starving and needed little prompting to seek nourishment. (I figured that would take at least 20 minutes.) First, I had to store my cumbersome backpack. I examined my options, and I'm proud to say that, hungry as I was, I turned my nose on the convenient, but pricey ($10) storage room and trekked across the terminal to the $1 lockers. I was truly psyched about my $9 savings, until I spent nearly that much on my airport lunch. Admittedly, it was not your typical airport lunch -- I had Japanese Udon soup (an incredibly tasty mix of noodles, pork, eggs, soy, onions and a spicy broth) and a pineapple.

After slurping down the last drop of soup and wiping my mouth with a scratchy napkin, I found I still had about 8 1/2 hours to kill. Thankfully, providence lent a hand and deposited Laszlo Szabo at my table. Laszlo is a high school student on a student exchange program from Hungary. We became fast friends as he told me all about his host family in Sacramento, his biological family in Hungary (who he hadn't seen in almost a year) and his love of karate & Mel Gibson movies. His English was very good, and we conversed easily. He compared Hungary and the United States in terms of their people (a lot friendlier here) and educational systems (a lot harder there). We talked for about an hour, and then I suggested we play some cards -- I taught him Rummy, Casino and various forms of poker (he already knew the basics of this latter game, and he kicked my American butt, winning all of my salt packets), but he was most interested in learning how to shuffle. (He was understandably impressed with my "bridge", so I offered to teach him -- he never quite got the hang of it, but I told him he'd master it with a little more practice.) In exchange (prid pro quo, like), Laszlo taught me a bit about Hungarian cards/games, including this interesting little tidbit: Hungarian cards have no aces, but rather, 4 "seasons". Eventually tiring of cards, we explored the airport store and took a stroll outside. After a much needed half-hour nap on a pair of benches, we exchanged addresses, checked our luggage and headed for our respective gates. Before we separated, I took Laszlo's picture (my first of the trip) and promised to send him a postcard.

That catches you up to speed and brings us here to gate 104, where I am presently writing this very sentence whilst anxiously awaiting Air New Zealand flight 51 to Honolulu (the capital of Hawaii, located on the island of Oahu). I'll continue this entry during the plane ride.

11:45 p.m. (Pacific Time) / 8:45 p.m. (Hawaii Time) En Route to Oahu

Well, I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps it was only in contrast to the dreadfulness of my recent Tower Air experience, but I have to say that my flight on Air New Zealand was one of the best of my well-traveled life! The flight attendants were courteous and helpful (not to mention sharply dressed in bowl hats and scarves), movie/radio headsets were free, and the meal was palatable and downright well-balanced (mixed salad, roll, cheese & crackers, pesto chicken with pasta and a vegetable medley, and, to top it all off, a slice of blueberry pie -- all washed down with my complimentary glass of white wine).

Moreover, I had some very nice neighbors. My two seatmates (or seat "mates"), Michael and Grant, were two 13-year-old baseball players from Queenstown, Australia. They had just represented their high school (and their country) at the international Firecracker Baseball Tournament in California. They were fun kids, and we passed an hour or so playing poker for (literally) peanuts [honey-roasted, to be exact].

I am going to try to get some sleep now. My red-eye flight isn't expected to arrive in Hawaii until 12:30 (Hawaii Time) in the morning, which is 3:30 a.m. Pacific Time and 6:30 a.m. (!) Eastern Time (considering I woke up this morning at 6:15 a.m., it doesn't take a mathematical genius to figure out that, when I land, I will have been traveling for over 24 hours -- hence, the need for rest).