The "FBO" was a single-story, non-descript, largely invisible building alongside the airport's main runway. Its next door neighbors were hangers housing small prop planes (I peeked). The purpose of an FBO is to offer all sorts of aviation services -- like rentals and fueling and parking -- to smaller, private planes and other aircraft not delivering cargo or passengers on commercial airlines.
What this really means is that this is where really shmancy people with private jets hang out before their flights. Naturally I eavesdropped as much as humanly possible.
It was a family of five: dad, mom, grandma, teen son, and grade-school daughter. The dad was busy on his phone and couldn't remember if Daughter had been to Europe before or not. Mom had a wrinkle-free face and an unchanging expression despite what seemed to be attempts to show emotion. She was wearing a fair amount of substantial jewelry and heels that never would have occurred to me to be suitable for travel. Son was bored, and Daughter was bouncing with excitement and high pitched giggles and questions. Thanks to her, I learned they were heading to an island off of Spain (eventually deduced to be Majorca).
They lounged about on the really nice couches and leather chairs, sipped hot beverages supplied by an espresso maker I never figured out, and occasionally watched the enormous plasma TV tuned to the History Channel. Grandma flipped through some of the provided Wine Spectator magazines and tried to make sure the granddaughter didn't break any of the decorative art pieces scattered on end tables.
Eventually a pilot showed up and introduced himself. He was one of three for their direct flight to Spain. The conversation was bizarre because the relationship was backwards. Instead of the passengers deferring to the pilot as I have always found typical while shlepping to the back of the plane, this time the passengers were the ones in charge with all the status and power. The pilot was no wimp, but it was clear he was a hired hand.
"Well, shall we head to Spain then?" That was the official boarding announcement.
As they exited the sliding glass doors onto the runway, another group of people excitedly joined them. They had just been dropped off by a black Hummer limo and there was lots of smiles and hugging. Apparently it was a large family trip of some sort.
The entourage followed their pilot to their plane. At about that time, a couple of fighter jets were landing so I got distracted and never saw which private plane the fancy travelers boarded. I half expected a red carpet to be spread on the tarmac as a clue.
Before a few days ago, I never really thought about what the airport experience might be for someone like, say, John Travolta. Although I had an opportunity once to fly in a corporate jet when I was working for a large grocery chain, it wasn't nearly as glamorous an experience as what I saw at the FBO.
That trip, I marveled at the time savings of being able to park my car in the hanger, avoid metal detectors and x-ray belts, and take off as soon as we were all assembled and beveraged. But that was countered by the horror of seeing the plane's carpeting move when the landing gear was engaged...and by the mysterious placement of the toilet paper amongst the wood paneling in the bathroom in an alarmingly effective effort to be discreet. Plus I didn't earn any frequent flyer miles for the 4000 mile trip, the highly coveted currency of business travel.
So as I watched the family traveling so rich and famously to a Mediterranean island and daydreamed what it might be like to take only one plane to other side of the planet without being smushed with my knees against my water bottle and praying the person in front of me doesn't want to recline, I decided that there is a lot to be said for a plane with carpet that doesn't move. Right? Right?? Yeah, right.
No comments:
Post a Comment