Flying Thomas April 25 - 30, 2004 About a great journey, a nervous mother, and a traveling kind of baby

	We may look like hillbillies, but you must grant us that the heap of bags does not look even nearly horrendous!!!

I always had the impression of being a seasoned traveller -- one simply throws some spare clothes into a bag, packs a toothbrush into a hand bag, and that's it. This year I tried for the first time how it feels to get a trip fever. Several nights before departure I spent contemplating situations, where I'm saving Tommy's life after a crash landing on an glacier in Greenland through slicing off my own leg; or I fight bare-handed a gang of terrorist who had hijacked the plane. At time when I fell asleep, my dreams haunted me with similar themes, naturally extended into absurd variations. When I, completely soaked, woke up in the middle of the night, instead of counting sheep I was putting myself to sleep by mentally compiling a list of items, which we must not forget.

The fact that we eventually succeeded in packing everything we wanted, can be regarded as a small miracle. The only thing left was to hop in a car with Martin and hope that Tommy would fall asleep on our way to airport, and would continue sleeping politely through most of the trip. Instead, Tom was completely fascinated by the airport. He refused to sit in his stroller, demanded to be carried about and to prattle at people (Californians love children and are quite willing to entertain His Miniature Excellency). He inspected all those interesting lights and colorful gizmos, and would not sleep. When we had him finally somewhat tired, still the strange noises kept alerting him; not to speak about our security control, where we were required to wake our (finally) sleeping baby, pull him out of the stroller/seat that had to be X-rayed. Sid, holding Tom, was wearing his suspenders with metallic buckles, which instantly made him a suspected individual. He was selected for more thorough frisking. Before, I could not imagine a scene with a strange woman rushing to remove clothes off of my husband; it can happen to you at the airport.

	Where's the plane?

In the aircraft, Tom received a bassinet, and when his excitement (read: loud crying) at our takeoff subsided, he fell asleep happily. He thus became the object of endless admiration by other passengers (no wonder, for a howling baby is no pleasant companion), mixed with envious emotions -- Tom was the only one who, during our ten-hour flight, could sleep in comfort. A greater crisis ensued only in a moment when our child wanted to eat. Being naively convinced that KLM flight attendants are professionals, we asked one of them to warm up a bottle of milk. She even frowned when Sid tried to explain that it sufficed to give the mild body temperature -- she snapped back that she needed no advice and can take care of a baby. After some fifteen minutes, when Tom equipped with a bib cried at the top of his lungs, we received a bottle with boiling contents and a kind advice that "we may want to wait till it cools down". We had to feed our desperately yelling Tom with another bottle, a cold one. Never again would we risk a KLM personnel; our baby cannot simply be explained that he may wait another half hour or more till he gets his food.

On a similar vein, we had to improvise with diaper changing. KLM would make whole TWO bathrooms available for the whole economy class (estimated 400 people). This meant standing in a line for at least twenty minutes before each use. A baby changing platform in such a bathroom consists of a miniature smooth surface made of flimsy plastic, ever so slightly slanted towards the toilet bowl. I dare anybody to try changing a baby of our Tom's temperament under such conditions; he would attempt to devour his changing pad, his soiled diaper, his new diaper, your shirt, his skin lotion, any napkins within reach, soap and other slimey substances left behind by previous visitors, the attendant call button, and generally anything including the airplane walls themselves. Try doing that without having any of those items (airplane walls excluded, but baby included) fall into the (thoroughly contaminated) toilet bowl.

	Tommy's bed, guarded by his favorite little hippo, was an object of many envious gazes from cramped passengers

The next complication awaited us in Amsterdam. They announced a so-called pre-boarding for business class and families with children, but the whole precious pre-boarding consisted of airport personnel checking our boarding passes in this order and herding us into a narrow corridor towards the plane -- without unlocking the actual trunk connected to the aircraft; in a short while all passengers were crammed there. Having finished their chores at the gate, the keepers moved leisurely to our locked doors and released already dithering passengers into the tube. As we were required to collapse Tom's stroller in the middle of the walkway (for improved convenience of airport employees we could not do that at the plane door like everywhere else; it had to be done mid-way between the gate and the aircraft, for that's where the staircase going under the plane is in Amsterdam) -- remaining 100 or so passengers simply trampled over us like a stampede, completely oblivious to our trying to protect our baby and own luggage. Since we did not move with the crowd, some of them came to a conclusion that Sid had to be working there, and demanded from him to deal with their excessive luggage as well! Finally reaching the plane, we collapsed on our seats, putting Tom in his car/stroller shell on the third seat next to us; the corridor still brimmed with passengers and did not offer any room for manipulation with luggage or a baby. We thought that we would sort everything out once people settle down a bit, but a chap showed up immediately, frowning about Tom who momentarily occupied what was rightfully to be the man's seat. A proactive flight attendant descended upon us like a harpy, lecturing us on how Tom had no right to take that space and what do we expect if we did not pay a full ticket for him? I confess that by that time, accumulated experience with services by KLM had me fuming, and I allowed myself to voice a comment that had they let us in with a real pre-boarding, we would have time to settle properly. Her answer was searing. I had expected a generic and vague apology, but instead came a brisk, "well, it is not my fault, is it, that they did not let you go first." I'm not sure: was it my fault that KLM personnel cannot get organized enough to board a small plane from Amsterdam to Prague?

	Tom has finally met his granny from Brno

That a baby is something mildly improper, something better not mention in a good company (like unshaved legs or bad breath), became a main theme of our European journey. In better cases, Tom was simply being invisible -- quite unlike in California, where majority of people at least smiles at a baby, and often adds a nice word or two -- we were rather shocked by reactions from indifference to aggression. No, I do not expect everybody to get exalted just because I chose to have a child, but not being literally stepped on by other people is what I use to take for granted, as a plain good manners. I also used to expect that other passengers on trains allow room for a stroller in the designated area, and that people hold doors for us.

But to stop whining -- we experienced good moments as well. When we complained at Ruzyně (Prague airport) that a whole Russian group tends to slide in front of us in the line for passport control, a competent police chief reviewed the situation and after seeing our sleeping Tom in his stroller and directed us through the crew-only gate (thus eliminating our trouble with the line).

My parents, my sister, and my friend Martina waited for us behind the last airport door. Martina helped us with moving our luggage to a rental car. I still had a feeling that despite my paranoid states of mind, and our packing fever, we packed only modest heap of bags (three big ones and three carry-ons) -- especially when a larger part of two bigger bags contained Tom's collapsible bed and a car seat. Without prejudice I must say though that my dad's WV Polo would not have taken us all. Fortunately our rented Ford Focus was a station wagon.

	Traveling finally tired down even our tireless kid.

All those people also properly demonstrated how after three years I have hardened up, California way. While the locals ran around wearing jackets and overcoats, we were sweating in sweatshirts. Tom merrily slept in his short-sleeve T-shirt, covered by a thin blanket. Contrary to established perception, Californians are rather used to cold weather. The climate is much warmer than in Central Europe, but it also means that winters are short and mild. Therefore Californians can't be bothered to buy winter clothes! And so it is easily possible to see a mother in sandals and shorts, removing ice from a frosted-over windshield, or children in wet swimsuits (note: the Pacific Ocean keeps some 60°F all year) building sand castles on a beach, while passing-by tourist group shivers in their dawn windbreakers and fur hats.

From Prague we drove straight to Brno, hence meeting my family was a welcome and a farewell in one. During one particularly confused situation when we all tried chatting with everybody at the same time, Sid was signing a rental contract, grandparents admired Tommy, I attempted to learn how to operate a cell phone kindly lent by my cousin Bara (I'm a total moron as cell phones go), we seem to have forgotten our smallest carry-on in Martina's car. Thanks to my previous nightly mental exercises, I packed everything in really paranoid patterns (with much redundancy for Tom's stuff), so I really did not miss those three used milk bottles and one soiled blanket, for the rest of our vacation.

A drive to Brno ensued -- I let Sid drive, for I was rather peeved by our flying experience and in such mood I don't control myself. Perhaps I would have fared better behind the wheel, given my mad-aggressive mind set. If there is one thing which moves Czech Republic closer to the Wild Balkans, then it's the local drivers' behavior. In our American context, two hundred kilometers represents a distance which we are easily willing to cover going to a favorite lunch place or for an afternoon walk. However, two hundred kilometers between Prague and Brno was a grueling ordeal, after which both driver and his passengers desperately sought to re-establish their mental balance. In the end, we survived somehow and our Tommy could finally meet his other grandma.

Copyright © 2004 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.