LA TO FRANKFURT

6 am. Today it will be 103 degrees at LAX.  We sat in the terminal looking out at the tarmac through green onion soup smog left over from yesterday. And the day before.  There was our plane.  A 707,  LA to Frankfurt. We could see the stewardesses boarding on the portable staircases.  Orange bubble hats, orange & black skirts, black scarves.  The 707 was trimmed with orange and black.  The 60’s ended just a couple of years ago, but the colors persisted.

Sally looked at me, “We board soon.”

“Yes, the bubble hats have gone inside that long silver tube that is our flight.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to wear one of those hats.  Morning sickness is bad enough.”

As we boarded Sally perked up a little.  At the top of the staircase, we were greeted by an orange bubble hat that sat gingerly on top of a head of shellacked blond hair.  She was almost friendly as she directed us toward the front of the plane.

We were not sure why we were boarding, why we were flying to Europe on this smoggy September day.  But there was something mandatory about the post college trip to Europe at that time in history.  Even with Vietnam still raging, even with Nixon in office.  Well, I wanted to go.  Needed to go.  Sal was ambivalent.  Of course, we had just found out that Sal was pregnant. But we had tickets bought on the cheap through International Students Fake Charter Company of America.  The ball was rolling down hill and we didn’t know how to stop it.

Oh, and did I mention the cold war? That should have helped slow us down.   Nope, not, never.  Hellbent.

We sat in our seats.  Sal was on the isle, I was in the middle, and a dapper, middle-aged gentleman in a perfect black suit was in the window seat.  As we took off and then leveled at altitude the dapper gentleman introduced himself, “Hello, I’ma Mr. Giovanni, whata you nameseh?”  Mr. Giovanni had perfect slicked back vampire hair and a B movie Italian accent. His manicured hands flew around the air like flying fish.

We replied and Mr. Giovanni asked us, “Doeh you flya mucha?”

“No, this is only our second time,” Sally replied.

Just then a stewardess with a drink cart asked us, “Would you like something to drink?”  Her bubble hat was pulled low on her head like a bobby in the UK. She looked severe, like she was sizing us up and would punish us severely if we misbehaved.

We got our drinks and Mr. Giovanni asked for some ice.  The stewardess looked at him with her elementary school teacher hard look, “This airline does not have ice.  If you want ice, you will have to go to McDonald’s.”

“Younga lady, they areeh no Macadonold’sa ina skyeh.” The severe stewardess harrumphed and stalked away to her next victim. Mr. Giovanni looked over at us.  “She’sa probably gotta lousy lova life, hah!  So, whya you kidsa goina Europa?  Vacation?”

Sally said, “Well, kind of.  We are going to travel a little then go to England.  My sister is going to college there and we want to visit her.”

“Why are you going to Europe, Mr. Giovanni?” I added.

“I’ma goena to Eetalee to see soma mya cugino to makeah thees boxeh par me.” He held up a little, decorative box. “I ama sell thesea to Disneylandeh for executiva giftsa.”

“Oh, do you flya much?” I asked.  The accent was infectious.

“Si, I flya alla time. I flya too much.  Thatsa why I almosta morto twiceh.”

“Sal gave Mr. Giovanni a concerned look, “What happened?”

“Oh, I was on un aereo and it crasheh.  Eveyoneh peoplea morto.  Excepta me.  I was ina bathroom.  Safesta spota on un aereo, hah!”

“Everyone was morto except you?” Sally asked.

“Si, I felta TER IB ELE, but contento.  La Virgene wasa smilingeh ona me thateh giorno.”

Mr. Giovanni was slipping further into his native tongue.  “So what happened the second time?  Another crash.”

“Oh si, I tella you.  I missa my flighteh.  So, I booka another flighta for il nexta giorno andeh checka into una albergo. In a littlea whileh a knocka la porta.  Anda guesseh whata?”

“We don’ta knoweh, whateh?” The accent infection was getting worseh.

“Ita waseh un giovane.  Il gaveh mea bottleh champagneh e fiori. Anda a carte froma la aerea. It saida, ‘Contratulazioni.  Thea flighteh thata you a missa crashedeh shortly aftera takeoffeh.  Youa areh thea onlyeh sopravvissuto,’ Howa you likea thateh?”

“We likeh thata.”

I couldn’t help noticing that the plane was filling up with smoke.  Not an electrical fire or anything like that.  No, this was worse.  A majority of the passengers were smoking.  I expected the oxygen masks to pop from the ceiling to prevent our asphyxiation.  But that didn’t happen.

And then the helmeted stewardesses in their orange and black began handing out meals.  One of several during the flight.  I had the green stuff; Sally had the reddish.  Mr. Giovani passed.  Between the smoke, the meals, and the severe stewardess assigned to our section I felt like I was in Charon’s boat.  It was a journey of the damned with the green and reddish meals of the damned. And little air.  The damned don’t need air.  Just smoke.  We hunkered down.  There was no alternative at 30,000 ft.

Time passed as it does for the damned.  Slowly. Mr. Giovanni was a big help though. An entertaining distraction.

Over Nova Scotia he began telling us more stories.

“Dida I a telleh youa abouta my time ina EEtalian armya worldeh wara due?”

“Noeh, nota yeteh, Mr. Giovani,” Sally answered.  “Pleaseh tella.”

“Ok, Ia telleh.  I wasa cookeh.  Lessa morto cookingeh. I noa likeh Mussolini mucha, so I cookeh, no fighteh.  No gunza. Hah! I surviva theh wara and here I ama to telleh youa. Mussolini, he don’ta surviva so goodeh.”

Over Greenland, “Hey, I tella youeh abouta I immigrazione a America.  I metta una bella ragazza Americana.  Shea ina Italia per reparare froma la Guerra. Wea marryeh  e mova Californi.  Ecollo.” The closer we got to Eetalee Mr. Giovani experienced a progressive, linguistic continental drift.

Over Iceland, “Hey, I tella you, racconto della mia Alfa Romeo. È una macchina meravigliosa. È italiano, sai. Ma è troppo piccolo. abbiamo un grosso cane…I tell you story of my Alfa Romeo. It is a wonderful machine. It’s Italian, you know. But it’s too small. We have a big dog …

Between stories I would look behind us.  Its seemed like most of the passengers were chatting, drinking martinis, and smoking.  Mainly smoking.  And then a crackle and a message came over the intercom from the captain. “Crackle, crackle, buzz, prepare, crackle, buzz, clik, landing.” Apparently, we were landing.

A stewardess walked by.  “Can you tell me if we are landing in Frankfurt? It seems early to me.”

“No, we are landing in Scotland for fuel. We will only be there for a short while so we will not disembark.”

The landing was smooth.  We pulled up to the terminal. I could see the fuel truck below.  The plane was still full of smoke.  The doors were not opened.  One man yelled to a stewardess, “Can you open a door and let some fresh air into the plane?”

“No, we can not,” was the reply.

“But we NEED fresh air.  Please open the doors.”

No response.

Several of the nonsmokers stood up and began shouting. “Open the doors.”  “I need air, not smoke.”  “What is WRONG with you people.  Open the doors.” “NOW.”

No response.  The hooded stewardesses’ eyes appeared to glow.  Not a peep out of the smokers. They seemed content to breathe the infernal smog in the long tube of Charon’s boat.

I could see the fuel truck pulling away.  Then we all heard the engines starting.  We taxied.  We lifted off. I thought I heard the dark boatman call to us, “LAST boat to Frankfurt!”

Mr. Giovanni continued his stories.  Only now it was all Italian all the time. The Italian alps had extruded into his verbal geology.

About his cousin, “Ehi, ti dico di mio cugino che possiede la fabbrica che produrrà le mie scatole. È alto solo 4 ‘ma fa una buona scatola.”  Hey, I tell you about my cousin who owns the factory that will produce my boxes. He is only 4’ tall but makes a good box

About his wife’s cooking, “Ehi, mia moglie cucina solo Americana. Non mangio, quindi cucino ogni giorno. Solo Italiano.”  Hey, my wife only cooks american.  I do not eat it, so I cook every day.  Only Italian.

About when his kid’s raised rabbits..  About his barber in California that had 6 fingers on one hand. He could really make the scissors fly.  2 stories about the virtues of freshly made pasta verses the spaghetti abominevoli available in American grocery stores. ETC. Mya braineh wasa fallineh outa mya headeh. Sally looked dazed…

We began to descend.  I felt the whir and hum of the flaps as they lowered.  We were landing and, unless we had a crasheh, would soon leave Charon’s boat without the ultimate stop in the underworld.

Little did we know…