Flying home from the conference reminded me of bringing home MC from Kazakhstan. We were in Kaz for three weeks when we adopted her. It had been a long trip, and at one point I even panicked and thought we might end up going home without her.
When we finally got to the airport, I was unbelievably relieved. John has a pilot’s license, and although he has not flown in thirty years, he did a mental preflight as we walked across the tarmac to the somewhat rustic-looking plane. Most of their planes were hand-me-downs from Russia, if that tells you anything. So he says, “I think those tires are bald.”
After everything else I wanted to deck him. “Shut up!”
“Well, they are.”
A Delta Air Lines Boeing 767
We climbed on board. The plane was only half full, thank goodness, because MC cried for nearly the entire four hours. The flight attendants, who were very sweet and understanding, took me to the back where they had folded down half the seats, so we could have some privacy.
As I looked around, I saw that the walls of the plane looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer and pounded dents in an almost decorative pattern. I wondered how the aircraft could sustain any pressure. That plane made more noises and had more squeaks and creaks than any I have been on before or since. I truly wondered if we would make it to Moscow.
After getting our visa in Moscow, we could finally go home. We stood in a very long line to board the flight to JFK. The jetway was built so that after rounding a corner we could see a good part of the front of the plane. There it patiently waited in all its glory—a gleaming Delta plane. At the door stood (I swear) a gleaming Delta pilot. Had I not been carrying MC, I might have thrown my arms around him and kissed him. Or at least the plane. I love America.