I’ve been doing a lot of air travel lately.  There once was a time when I considered airplane travel to be glamorous and exotic — mainly before I ever got on an airplane.

As a kid, air travel seemed an unattainable adventure.  We were people of modest means and my dad would sooner walk to a distant locale than fly (ostensibly because of cost, but also, I think, because he was intimidated by the idea).  The images on TV were of luxury travel with service by gorgeous women. Pretty much what has been re-created by Mad Men — what’s not to covet about that?  I had a friend whose family actually could afford a trip to Disneyland —  ON AN AIRPLANE!!! TO DISNEYLAND!!!  We could never do something like that – we were a car trip/cheap motel family.

Fast forward 40 years.  I now fly regularly – not as much as some, but enough to care what my SkyMiles status is (that’s shameful, isn’t it?).   If there ever was glamor, there is very little left.  As I eat my meager bag of complementary pretzels and sip my diet coke, I am very much aware that (probably for the better) flying has become an activity for the masses – thus, a bus on wings.  On a normal flight, one will meet and sit in personal-space-invading proximity to a large cross-section of humanity.

I’m not really a germophobe, but I have become acutely aware of people exhibiting symptoms on airlines.  There is nothing quite like feeling the impact of a sneeze on the back of one’s head.  If I don’t keep myself occupied, I listen for every cough or sneeze with the knowledge we will be breathing shared air for the duration of the flight.

On a recent flight, I there was a gentlemen a couple rows behind me with the kind of wet, loose, lung rattling cough that, in my mind could only mean tuberculosis.  He coughed up multiple lungs over the course of the 3 hour flight.

Worst was when Laura, our daughter Lisa, and I were flying to Europe for the wedding of Lisa’s high school best friend.  We were on a wide body plane in the middle, occupying 3 seats with a stranger next to Lisa in the fourth.  No sooner did we take off than the woman next to Lisa pulls out her barf bag and starts to heave, and heave, and heave.  Lisa the medical student leans in to help (apparently you’re supposed to do that as a doctor).  Laura and I were holding our breath and trying to will ourselves to the edge of the plane – ideally off it.  We had no sympathy and were distraught by our daughter’s altruistic reaction.

All we could think of was Norovirus – that dreaded intestinal bug that wracks one’s system until things want to come out both ends but there is nothing left to come out.  That would’ve put a bit of a damper on the wedding festivities.  Turns out we were fine, and Doctor Lisa ultimately diagnosed it as a severe case of too-much-partying-the-night-before-itis, but the rest of the plane ride was spent aware of every little gurgle or digestive imperfection.  We passed on the pretzels.

Laura had a business trip to Rome and I was lucky enough to tag along.  We stayed in this very charming hotel on the Aventine Hill, just south of the Forum and Colosseum.   It was a renovated residence – a villa really – with all the modern amenities.  I’m guessing it had been renovated in the last 10 years.

I was surprised to see a bidet in the bathroom.

I didn’t even know they made bidets any more.

I don’t know anybody who admits to ever using one – in fact, call me naïve, but I’m not entirely sure how they are supposed to be used.  They actually look like they might be a guilty pleasure of sorts – all in the name of cleanliness.

Actually, I do know one person who admitted to using one:  Laura’s mother once said she used the bidet to soak her feet.  I’m not even sure how that would work — it’s a bit of a balancing act if you plan to soak both feet at the same time.

The internet informs me that bidets are still quite common in southern European countries, but so, apparently these days, are showers.  I get the idea the one might want to wash their privates, but if you have a shower available isn’t that a whole lot easier?  And, why clean those parts and ignore your underarms?  I know that would be pretty difficult in a bidet.

On Saturday mornings, a local classic rock station runs replays of Casey Kasem’s America’s Top 40 from the 1970’s.  As I was driving this past Saturday, it was a rebroadcast from 1975 and the top single was “Have You Never Been Mellow” by Olivia Newton John.  The song reminded me of Mr. Christianson.

Mr. Christianson was my 5^th and 6^th grade music teacher.  He was probably in his mid to late 50s at the time, but seemed ancient to me.  The main thing I recall about our weekly classroom music sessions is that he would take time at the end of each class to play whatever single was at the top of the Billboard Chart that week.  He would put the 45 on the old classroom phonograph with the inadequate speaker and would expose us to pop music.

I only remember four songs: The Eric Clapton version of “I Shot the Sheriff;” the Blue Swede version of “Hooked on a Feeling” (ooga chaka, ooga chaka); “The Night Chicago Died” by I don’t know who; and “Have You Never Been Mellow.”

This was pretty cool, because I’m almost positive Mr. Christianson did not play these records at home.  In fact, he wasn’t much of a fan.  I believe he thought Newton John and Elton John were the same person.

The other thing Mr. Christianson did was indulge a 5^th grade rock fantasy.  A couple of buddies and I had the idea to start a band.  Having had a year of piano lessons, I was to be the keyboardist.  Mr. Christianson agreed to meet us after school to work with us.  This was more difficult for my buddies because Cannon Falls Elementary School did not have a supply of guitars or a drum set (and neither did my pals).  It did, however, have a piano.  While my pals looked on, Mr. Christianson patiently tried to teach me some rock chord progressions.  We lasted a couple of sessions before we moved on to our next big idea.   No danger of Mr. Christianson confusing me for Elton John.