I hate airports. I loathe them not because of the long lines for tickets, security screening, and check-in. Nor do I hate them for the noise, solicitors, or over-priced food and coffee at packed eateries. I abhor airports for one simple reason: I am virtually always “The Ride.”
Those of you who have been “The Ride” know what I am talking about. But for me, being “The Ride” is usually an experience on an entirely different level. It’s not the traffic or the luggage crammed in my compact car’s trunk or the horrid times of day I have had to drive to the airport. It’s the travelers—or, to be more precise, my family. Especially Mom.
My mother doesn’t catch flights, she hunts them down, lies in wait, and snares herself a seat. If her flight was booked for Monday, Mom would leave for the airport on Sunday (after Mass, of course!). And this was before TSA screening began. Now she stakes out a weekend spot in the airport lounge on Friday night and rents a priest.
My most memorable experience taking family to the airport was for an 8 p.m. flight on Sept. 23, 1994. Yes, I still recall the hour the flight was scheduled to leave. Mom and her two sisters, Aunts One and Two, decided to visit the land of their Presta family origins: Italy. My youngest brother was to meet them in Venice and join them on this foray. His comments to me were, “I can’t wait to tour Italy with three Italian-American women seeking their roots. With any luck, we’ll find ourselves in some town where the Presta name is hated and I’ll end up chewing on the end of some villager’s shotgun.” Well, that was his problem. Mine was getting Mom and Aunt One to LAX for Al Italia Flight 666, the flight from hell, piloted by Captain Virgil Dante.
Mom had flown from Phoenix to stay with me in Pasadena where I lived while studying art history, and Aunt One came up from Newport Beach. The next morning Mom proceeded to “re-pack” to accommodate rolls of camera film she bought for a camera she didn’t quite know how to use. This tiny detail would later prove significant.
I packed Mom, Aunt, and suitcases into my new 1994 Ford Escort. We proceeded to enter the melee known as L.A. traffic, an adventure in itself, especially changing freeways in a maneuver called “merging,” better known as “making friends with people you hate.” All the while I listened to a dual litany of angst: “We should have left earlier! We’ll miss the flight!” “Relax, will you? Knowing Al Italia’s record, it’ll probably be late! We should have flown TWA!”
We arrived at the international terminal, and Mom was as excited as a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.
“There’s the sign for the airlines. Stop and check it,” she said, pointing to a billboard.
“Stop where? I know where we’re going,” I said.
“You passed it!” she cried as I drove past various foreign airlines.
“No, Mom, it’s right here,” I reassured her as I stopped at Al Italia’s check-in area.
“No, you passed it! Go back and check the sign,” she moaned.
“You’re kidding, right?” I replied. From the back seat came the voice of reason: “For God’s sake, just go back and let her look at the stupid sign so she’ll calm down.”
So I circled back all the way through LAX airport during rush hour and pulled alongside a busy airport lane so my beloved mother could read a billboard listing
foreign airlines.
“Where is it?” Mom fretted.
“Right there,” I said. “It says Al Italia, Mom.”
Her frustration peaked: “No, we’re on Italian Airlines! It’s not here! We’re at the wrong terminal!”
My frustration peaked higher, “Yes we are! Al Italia is Italian for Italian Airlines! You’re going to Italy, Mom! They speak Italian there, for God’s sake!”
“Oh,” she demurred, and happily trotted out of the car once I screeched to a halt by the Al Italia check-in—again. Then it got interesting.
We were to meet Aunt Two at the check-in. She had arrived earlier to meet her daughter, who had flown home from New Mexico. I was not just a ride to the airport, but a ride home for the Cousin. I dropped off the ladies, parked in the nearby structure, and hauled all the luggage to the check-in where Cousin greeted me with a look that said, “Brace yourself and gird your loins.”
Apparently Captain Dante was still flapping his way back from Milan, and the flight from hell was delayed and would not arrive until 2 a.m.
“Wait,” I mused silently. “Don’t they have a plane here to fly there while that plane is flying here, or does this airline have only one plane?”
Aunts and Mom nervously flitted back and forth to the desk agent, who appeared unconcerned, while several Italian travelers stood in line shouting. So I gave him something to be concerned about.
“Aspetti!” (“Hold on a sec!”) I shouted. Yes, I speak Italian, to the amazement of my family. What did they think I was doing in college? I loudly explained to the desk agent that an 8 p.m. flight delayed for that long was unacceptable. The airline was required to accommodate my family with meal vouchers and a place to rest until the flight arrived.
“Oh, si,” he nervously replied. “No so loud, piacere (puhleeze).” I then proudly held up the vouchers for the nearby Sheraton hotel for all to see, and 140 angry Italians converged on the agent for theirs. Now he was concerned. So was I.
I wondered how the hell I was going to fit Mom, Aunts, Cousin, and luggage in my Go-cart—I mean Escort. Ever put together one of those interlocking Chinese puzzles? I had one made of luggage in my trunk. All we needed was a rocking chair with Mom sitting in it on the roof and we could drive to Beverly Hills!
After a lovely meal, courtesy of Al Italia, Mom and Aunt Two chose to return to the airport instead of relaxing in a nice room, outvoting Aunt One.
“Mom, they’ll send a shuttle for you and you can all rest,” I reasoned.
“No, I don’t trust them, and we don’t want to chance it,” she reasoned back.
“I told you we should have flown TWA,” said outvoted Aunt One as they crammed themselves, purses, and carry-ons back into my clown car.
Back at the airport, we said arrivaderci. But first, Mom wanted a photo of their departure—and couldn’t locate her luggage key: “Please look for it,” she pleaded.
“Check your jeans pocket,” I suggested.
“No, I never put anything in my jeans pockets. Please go look for it.”
So off I went on a scavenger hunt for a tiny key, and I really mean that. I scavenged the airport and Sheraton floors, the restaurant, the parking lots and structure, and the gutters by the curb at Al Italia’s check-in area. No key.
I returned with the bad news and Mom cried, “Guess what?” Apparently she and Aunt Two had the same luggage, so Aunt Two’s key fit Mom’s luggage, too. So now, the photo op, but wait! No camera! While repacking the film, Mom had left the camera on my living room table. After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I was dispatched to buy Funsavers.
Mom then walked Cousin and me to the curb for a final farewell. Hugs, kisses, and Mom said, “Gosh, it’s cold out here!” and shoved her hands into her jeans pockets. She suddenly beamed and held up a small, shiny object. “Look! I found my key!” Slowly I turned, step by step, looked at Mom and said, “Now that’s a little secret I would have kept to myself.” I hugged her again and said, “I love you, and for your sake don’t come back empty-handed! If you do, call a cab.”
Ariel Waterman’s mother, Donna Presta Corea, is her rock and her inspiration. Send cab fare via editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 9-16, 2010.