The Cost of Flying Free

I possess a great cynicism towards gratuity- free stuff, handouts. This may seem surprising since (1) my sister Rebekah assuredly has the spiritual gift of free stuff acquisition and (2) my Calvinist leanings would seem inclined to subscribe to the "You have been chosen" free stuff promotional. And yet I do not. Rather, I recognize that most things in life are not free- to include your freedom, welfare entitlements, and the extras they throw in with the new car. Nothing is free. Apparently, save for Space Available Travel.

More affectionately known as "Space A", this gratuitous travel arrangement is afforded to military personnel and their dependents. As Jason's "dependent" (and yes, I cringe at this patriarchal term), the kids and I get to enjoy the privilege of flying to  CONUS (military speak for the Continental United States).  However, much like Obamacare, there exists the onerous hidden fees enjoyed by unwitting taxpayers. In the case of Space A travel, the cost is exacted in other ways, namely years off of one's life.   Allow me to expound:

In a recent lament to my mom, I mentioned that I wanted a life that was more adventurous. Her encouraging response was that I do have a busy and full life; specifically,  "you clean your house, Melissa and home-school." I stopped her there.  She had me "you clean your house."  I needed adventure to save me from a gravestone touting my domestic abilities. 

Perhaps as an impulsive  quest for adventure, I signed up for Space A travel to McGuire AFB (Air Force Base) in New Jersey. The deal is this: You must arrive ready to fly, baggage secured, rental car returned, husband upon whom I am "dependent" bid farewell. Then, you stand, at attention at the Roll Call desk to await the mispronunciation of your name being called for the flight you hope to take. If you never hear it, you go home and unpack the three-hours worth of packing. If you do, then you promptly go through security and check your luggage.  When I first heard my name "Alissa Franken", I was apprised by a lovely civilian that I was not "sponsored to go to Japan".  It took about ten minutes to clear up this misinformation, until I was nearly shouting, "I never wanted to go to Japan. I just want to see my mom!" The issue was resolved.

The second time I heard my name, I was met by scowls of angry retirees who "winter" in Hawaii and are desperate to get back to their Bingo nights and shuffleboard matches. Incidentally, being retired leaves you low on the Space A totem pole.  There is nothing like the persnickety elderly: competitiveness is not exclusive to the young.

After beating out about a dozen grandparents for the flight to McGuire, my entourage and I awkwardly amble to security, where eventually, we are funneled into yet another metaphorical and literal holding patterns. A theme to often be repeated. Shortly thereafter, however, we were loaded onto a white bus, whereupon, Caid attempted to launch himself into the driver's seat, announcing, "I want to drive the bus. I want to drive the bus." Endearing the first time. Infuriating the fourth. It was all eerily reminiscent of two seemingly dichotomous events: Holocaust transports and youth group trips. Little room. Lots of smells. Screaming kids. You get the picture.

Finally, we descend upon this aircraft, of cinematic proportions. And with as much grace as packed mule-Britax in hand, a overnight bag, backpack and purse, we all tumble out of the bus.  Only to hobble precariously up the steps onto the plane, whereupon a I espy a warning sign that cautions passengers about the presence of corpses in transport. WHAT! (And really, what does that mean? Don't allow my toddler to desecrate them? If you have a fear of flying and death, you're screwed?)

We sit in seats best reserved for airman who drop bombs. Initially, it's thrilling. We're like action movie stars without the movie or the money. Then, the deafening noise of which we were forewarned begins, followed shortly by Caid's otherwise deafening screams of fears. One advantage, however, was that passengers could only see his mouth move in screaming protest. Everything else was muted, of course, by the deafening aircraft.

So, Continental's  bathrooms are like the Ritz Carlton by comparison to military aircraft.  As Eowyn and I sandwiched ourselves within the "latrine" (military speak for port-o-john passed off as a bathroom), I kept reminding: all this is free. And so is whatever disease she inherited because of her tiny bladder.

Finally, we blessedly landed in California, only to determine that Stan's Shuttle Service and Enterprise Rental are like the only companies left in America that honor the Sabbath (Fortunately, there wasn't a Chick Fil-A around to taunt us too). That left us walking -no-hobbling- in the dark, cold night along a stretch of road, barely lit, in search of the elusive Air Force Base lodging that -mainly-provides no shuttle service.  Caid was sobbing. My arms were throbbing. And that is when I did it. I hitch-hiked. Sort of. We hopped a ride with a uniformed servicemen-Confident that any would be kidnapper would lose his taste for kids after a brief ride with my exhausted, hungry, runny-nosed whining two. Desperate times, desperate measures.  Actually, "Lloyd" was a godsend, quite literally and I couldn't stop tell him that either- which probably made him more fearful of me than the reverse.

To their credit, the airman were gallant gentlemen, chivalrous to a fault and more importantly, graciously indulgent of my children who would obliterate the patience of a Saint. Eowyn and Caid were permitted to walk about the cabin and even visit the cockpit.  And when we reached the comfort of my mom's kitchen with homemade soup warming the stove, the cost of this gratuitous adventure was neglible.

At the very least,  this "adventure" I glibly undertook garnerd some new material for my epitaph: "Not only did Melissa clean, but she was crazy."