Flying is not like it used to be

This realization slapped me in the face today on our flight from Virginia to Colorado for the annual Rocky Mountain Outreach. We’ll be training young people in evangelism in a few different cities, doing a little camping, and going to the wedding of one of our RMO alumnae.

When I was a little girl, I flew every summer to my grandparents’ home in Cleveland. I went for two weeks, then they would send me home and my brothers would go for two weeks. They had a built-in pool and a really cool house so the draw to Cleveland was great.

Flights back then were a once-a-year treat, probably paid for by my grandparents since my father was a teacher and my mother was a stay-at-homer.

Mommy would put me in my prettiest dress with black patent leather Mary Janes and ankle socks with lace edges. She would do my hair up special, and sometimes I had a little purse in which to carry a few trinkets to occupy my time. And I had to have something to carry my junior stewardess wings in.

Back then Mommy walked me to my gate and actually went on the plane with me to help me find my seat and get my seat belt on. That was when the stewardess (that’s what she was called in those days) would ask for a paper ticket.

When I got to the other end of my journey, the stewardess would take me by the hand and lead me down the steps (jetway? What’s that?) and across the tarmac to the terminal. She would then hand me over to whoever claimed me. No photo ID, no questions. Life was vastly different then.

This whole train of thought began when the flight attendants came through the cabin at the beginning of our 4-hour, cross-country flight today with “snacks.”

When I was a child, being in a cramped airplane for half a day at least got you a full hot meal. Not so in 2022.

The flight attendant stopped at each row and politely asked each passenger, “Biscoff or pretzels?”

One or the other. Definitely not both.

In case you haven’t flown in a while, Biscoff (Biscoffs?) are two little cookies, about one inch by two inches each. Your other option is a baglet of miniature pretzels that are no larger than a dime—maybe 10 or 12 in a package.

And water, no ice.

Eight hundred dollars doesn’t get you much anymore. You go from Richmond to Denver, but you’ll be hungry when you get there.