This will earn me scorn among the technologically adept, but it must be said: I picked up the phone and called the airline with a question about my reservation.
Whoa-ho, Gramps, did you also slaughter a pig for breakfast sausage before taking the Edsel to Main Street to do some banking? Yes, that is what I did, snapper of whips. Quite the busy morn. Now sit down and mind your elders. The reason I called was pure sweaty paranoia, and let me explain to the Snapchat demographic how it once was.
Once upon a time if you wished to fly, you called a travel agent. They made loud clacking noises on computer keyboards that sounded like someone breaking dominoes with a hammer, and they stared at green letters on a black screen. A week later you got an actual ticket. At the airport, you handed it to someone who said, "Welcome aboard, and please put out your cigarette." As the plane took off you didn't think, "I didn't remove my shoes or belt. Hope the plane doesn't explode!" Then a chime went BONG and rows 18-25 fired up Winstons.
But enough nostalgia for an era when the air inside the plane was as blue as outside. The only thing I miss is the ticket. It's proof. Oh, I like having my boarding pass on my phone; it feels frictionless and modern. Beep! Done. But what if your battery dies? Well, you can lose tickets. If I must print off a boarding pass, I make two copies. You never know when you'll stroll through security, yawn, stretch and absent-mindedly stuff the pass in your mouth and chew it to an unrecognizable cud. So I make an extra copy and tape it to the small of my back.
These days we get our tickets online, which puts us, the consumers, in control. Same with making reservations. You enter MSP and your destination, and lo! You get a list of astonishing options:
SPITR AIR 9 hrs 3 min
Dept 4:31 AM
Six layovers incl. Pyongyang (may be delayed due to detention)
