SKY TALES Foiled Again
High above the sky where the air thins out remains a sort of parallel universe.
Halfway between heaven and earth passengers on those tiny tubes skyrocketing across the globe remain hostages to the whims of our transporters – those ignominious airplanes.
Having time to ponder the wonders of the world, one of my biggest sky borne dilemmas remains mealtime.
As strong willed flight attendants wheel their carts too and fro, feeding the masses I have and continue to remain confused what to do with the silly metal foil attached to my meal with no name. Perhaps CSI needs an airborne unit.
Gently rolling back the edges, perhaps in a similar situation to hopping into a sleeping bag deep in the Amazon jungle – half anticipating a coiled up snake or scorpion to leap out.
Mostly it's a mix of nausea and dread, though I do revel in the identification process of is the chicken really chicken or is it pork, beef, fish or a lethal mix of all.
Then I get stuck with the foil.
There is no place to put in on the brimming tray and most often some toxic liquid is dripping as heat singes my fingers. I grasp the foil throughout the flight with indecision and angst.
I don't think I'm alone in the quandary but after some 50 years of flying it's still a reoccurring serial episode.
No innovation, enlightenment, and hey where is Steve Jobs when you need him?
For now, it's just another case of being foiled again.