A Big Archie Bunker Chair

Experiencing some mild turb-a-lance, some mild flat-u-lance, some disorientation flying down to Shanghai in the morning, rather than at night.  Flying down on a strange carrier.  China Eastern tries.  They try in a way that seems more earnest and less contemporary than Air China.  When I check in at the business line, there is a big Archie Bunker chair at the head of the line.  No one encourages anyone to sit in this chair.  No one collapses down into the furniture when it is their turn at the head of the line.  The lining of the chair is old and most people like me want to arrange matters and move on as quickly as possible.  Still this Mao-welcomes-Nixon-for-a-chat, concept of hospitality is what someone decided top-service is all about. 

I am doubtful that this flight will be on time, but it is, and I am grateful for that.  The lady who has processed my ticket than calls out for someone to help with luggage.  I only have a small bag on wheels, but before I know it, a young man has taken my bag and is leading me across the floor.  We are walking along a frayed red carpet.  The China Eastern lad in the white, short-sleeved shirt hasn’t said anything to me and no doubt assumes we are stymied linguistically.  So I call to him and he explains the process.   His accompaniment on the red carpet journey ends here.  Security is over there.

I didn’t bother with any of their lounges.  I walked along the old Terminal Two airport corridors considering fifteen year-old memories of when this was the cities “new” airport.  That Starbucks that used to be up here is gone.  Someone is trying to skype me.  And I realize I’ve gone the wrong way.  Gate nineteen is completely the opposite direction. 

The random mix up in the ears is interesting.  A bit of time with Little Richard and “Tutti Fruiti” “boy you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”  That “boy” must have been intentional.  Then the original version of “Can You See the Real Me?” from the Who’s Quadrophenia.  And now I can’t help but imitate John Entwistle’s bass runs.  A strange middle aged foreigner, plucking away at invisible bass strings.  The lines take on a new meaning for different phase of life, as old songs can sometimes do.

I board the plane and everyone bows. Is that good service?  It’s an attention to service, I’ll grant you.  But you wonder if their benchmark must simply be JAL and ANA.  Another gent in a short sleeved white shirt takes me to my seat with a smile and another bow.  Yes.  A glass of water would be nice.  But first, where is the bathroom?