Holiday travel rant. A Classic.

I’ve never experienced the suspense of the stocking stuffer craze, but I’m certain that holiday travel is one hundred times worse than any vile thing you could possibly stuff into your child’s sock for Christmas.

Sorry little Henry, looks like mommy booked you a thirteen hour flight delay for your Christmas Eve. Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t get that super soaker you’ve been whining about for the past three months? I would have to say so. This is way cooler. You see, Mom and Dad get that vacation they’ve been waiting for since that frightful day in the maternity ward, and little Henry gets a lesson in maturity. Everybody wins!

I suppose this is why I prefer Hanukkah. It’s simple: you either get ripped off entirely (for eight days) --or your grandparents give you some semi-decent presents that you manage to pawn off on someone else after you’ve had your way with them. There’s no funny business, and certainly none of this “we tried to find you the best gift ever” BS. It’s honest—and gifts or no gifts you’re gonna have a damn good time with those menorah candles and your gelt candy.  It’s a win-win. Plus, if you’re really rambunctious, you know how to hustle your brother out of his holiday cash in a good game of dreidel.

I think in order to truly understand the delights of the Christmas season, we must go back to the beginning. And where do all holidays begin? ….The airport.

Twelve hours I spent in the airport. Yup, you got it: t-w-e-l-v-e.

Now, normally I would only reserve that amount of time for fun-filled, happy things like…sleeping, carnivals, eating contests, or if you’re completely insane and highly motivated—marathons for various good causes. Well, I’m no track star, and I’m certainly no Japanese hot dog eating champion, but I am a naïve little college student who eagerly sat in the JFK airport waiting for her flight number to be called after an 9 hour flight push-back.

What a difference nine hours makes in your ability to withstand normal human interaction. I sat there listening to the buzz of children screaming, cell phones and the obnoxious ring tones that come with them, and the mysterious PA system announcer-guy just wondering what the hell I was doing there. How could so many people have babies and not be on the verge of death and a total rampage? Why does everyone love to travel? …Where do these people find these ring tones? And most annoyingly, what’s WITH this airport and this city and its ‘holier than thou’ attitude?

Maybe it’s the countdown to Christmas that makes everybody crazy and forget that people have feelings and nerve endings, but I haven’t been surrounded by that level of mayhem since the third grade when they were giving out free candy and toys on Purim. Nobody had an ounce of manners or kindness to give. Nobody acknowledged your presence or had any concept of personal space. Sure, I come from Palm Beach, a place of equal snobbishness and botox –mania that could one day give NYC a run for its money, but seriously…what was this? It wasn’t hell—they don’t have ESPN blaring on plasma T.V.’s there. But it was close enough for me to be completely consumed by disgust.

It was then that I finally understood the appeal of the Amish lifestyle. I do like pie, afterall.  And quilts…

Alright, so that little epiphany of mine only lasted for a good 15 seconds—until my phone rang and I was back to this century and the coca-cola lifestyle. Coca –cola? I know I know, what does that have to do with anything airport-related? Well, to put it simply… everything. I’m not talking strictly about that delicious corrosive drink I loved as a child (2 a day keeps the doctor away. Or maybe it just rots your teeth, stomach, and everything in between, but don’t quote me on that). I’m talking the coca-cola industry, my friends. Capitalism’s great promise! Coca-cola—and well, most other big name companies for that matter—promises us style, comfort, and all the happiness we could ever hope for.  They’re the ones that tell us to let things make us happy—that only things can make us happy. Just look at those commercials, where there are beautiful men and women laughing and frolicking like little girls in Central Park, of all places! They are the ones that sell it, that great American Dream we’ve come to love so dearly. They’re what New York (and Christmas) is all about. 

So … in this 12 hour journey from hell, I suppose that I have really learned nothing other than my total incompatibility with NYC and ‘the marketplace’, a few new catchy ring tones, the ‘fair’ price of bottled water, and the total joke that is …Holiday Travel.

Get those Christmas lights down before New Years this time!