Connecting Flights
[Melbourne/Auckland/SanFrancisco/Seattle]
A word about overcharging
with the morning’s hotel manager-
and a quick dash to the lift
as my iPhone calls me -
it’s John for a ‘Bon Voyage’ -
just not well-timed as
up in our room, 1607,
I’ve left my wife near fainting
‘I just can’t do this!’
Rushing back to her -
I lose my connection
with John as the lift door
slides shut on me - sorry, John.
Everything depends on
getting her out and into the cab.
We’d planned on a 9 a.m. smooth
departure for the airport.
It’s after 10 when we leave.
Air New Zealand hasn’t quite
closed its check-in desk.
The good woman says Yes,
your wheelchair is booked.
Here it is, and is your husband
OK about pushing it?
He’s not all that strong, says
the wife. ‘That’s an insult!’
I retort, clutching the handrail.
Off we go, and soon I feel
a certain lack of muscle
making for slowness.
At security she has to stand,
and that’s when from behind
I make an ill-timed lurch
clipping her ankles. Ouch!
I can’t apologize enough.
The way to our departure gate
is through a thousand shops
I’d rather not have to navigate,
nor then to steer us up a slope.
How far is it? is time up?
They find us, kindly Air
New Zealand staff. ‘Sir,
let me take the wheelchair.’
Indeed he may - we show
our boarding passes, I follow
him, chair, wife, down one
last slope, and there’s the plane
and welcome, last to board.
Good riddance to the chair,
however much it helped.
2
Auckland - we’ll do without
the chair, stand in line - security
insists no-one can wait
for their connecting flight
without being checked again.
Time to relax and even shop -
those t-shirts are cute and cheap -
I’ll take them both, the Mt Cook
Lily Orchid, pink on black -
no lily, more a buttercup.
But hurry to the connecting flight!
Which time-zone’s this? I’m seized with fright,
and bustle my wheel-chair-less wife
to the wrong departure gate!
Go back up there fast, they may not wait!
If only I could tell the time,
if numbers would stay in my head -
they’re on my boarding pass -
where did I put it? some safe place,
safe as my visa in my passport!
3
Once we’re landed at San Fran
seeing our suitcases again
will make me feel secure and safe,
but first Homeland Security
will scrutinize us carefully.
A student’s document, stapled
by the US consulate firmly
in her passport, a student’s spouse’s
document in mine. Enough, surely?
The man in black’s doubt rouses
at something on his black screen.
He calls a colleague, shares concern.
‘Have you been in the Middle East
in the last five years?’ Not me.
We’re led away to a waiting room,
our passports lodged at the end
of a long shelf. Officers wend
to and fro amongst several pairs
of travelers, some in wheelchairs -
does disability rouse suspicion?
But our connecting flight!
How can they ask their questions
of me and say: ‘well, all right,
go get your bags through Customs’ -
yet leave us time to make it
all the way to United Airlines
in the next building? departing soon!
Timidly I mention this. I gesture
to my wife in her wheelchair -
‘she’s an invalid.’ He scorns the word.
Yet something moves him. While
others in ones and twos file
to the interview room, he returns
us our passports, points to the door.
From which we speed - to another queue.
Wait your turn to the baggage hall.
Find your carousel - what number?
empty of bags, but there are ours!
bunched nearby, one two three four.
I can’t manage them on a trolley
plus my disabled wife, but ask -
and a worker’s here for the task.
Out he leads us, past ‘Connecting
Flights’, to the wide intersecting
of walkways with numbers on.
Check your Bags Here. We do.
Follow through to United, who
have their own labyrinth. Where’s
our Seattle connection? how soon?
We just make it. Some afternoon!
4
Mount Rainier shines in summer light.
The wheelchair person at SeaTac
has a son in Kalgoorlie, which she likes!
She’s from Fiji! I praise their footballers.
I’d tip her if I could find my dollars.
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