That airline travel is no longer the luxury experience it was in the past is something of an overarching generalization suggesting air travel is no longer a pleasant experience. Crowded planes, confusion fare structures, hidden (or not so hidden) fees, and surly flight attendents along with the general stress embodied in terrorism seem to support this.
However, on occasion there comes a flight crew with a little sense of humor delivered in just in time to recapture some of the fun in flying. Sitting on the plane in the Atlanta airport on my flight departing nearly two hours late due to weather, the voice over the speaker system comes alive.
"Ladies and gentlemen, to ensure we can leave the gate as quickly as possible, please step out of the aisle once you have reached your seat. For those of you blocking they aisle, there will be a $70 blocking fee assessed."
"Sorry folks, we're going to be here a few more minutes. In their haste, someone forgot to empty the trash in the back of the plane. And yes, we are required to remove that trash before we can leave. We do apologize for the delay, but does it really matter since we're an hour and half late already."
"While we're waiting folks, I realize the plane is getting a bit stuffy. So, if you will reach above your head and turn the little eyeball one way, you will get some fresh air. If you turn it the other way, the wings will fall off the airplane. Oh, I'm just kidding, you know there is no such thing as fresh air on an airplane."
While all of that did bring a chuckle, the most entertaining comment of the trip came upon our arrival to our home airport: "Please watch your head as you exit the airplane and if you're not going to watch your head, then please watch your language. Thanks for flying Delta!"
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Stopped Just to Catch My Breath
The combination of an exisiting respiratory problem coupled with the effects of high altitude in the mountains and a beautiful day on which to ski set the stage for God to present a unique life lesson.
Looking for something to fill the 24 hour bus ride from my home to the ski resort in Crested Butte, CO, by change I picked up a copy of John Ortber's book, Everybody's Normal Till You Get to Know Them. The book turned out to be quite interesting as it explored the idea of community from a Godly perspective and how the idea of normal is little more than a metaphorical mask we used to keep people at a distance. The fact that we are all flawed is a problem we share and one we could do a much better job of managing through a little less"normal" and a little more acceptance of people "as is". Admittedly, I have often been hesitant to express my truest feelings even with people that know me pretty well opting instead for the facade of "normal". For a myriad of reasons ranging from "they have enough of their own stuff to deal with" to "they really don't care", I keep my problems to myself. It could be argued that I was the character described in the book - stoic and detached.
After what was a brisk 2 1/2 hours of skiing in truly pristine conditions in the morning, I found myself short of breath and seeemed unable to take in a full breath. Even taking a break for lunch at the Labrador and trying to force extra fluids, my body was not able to recover from the physical demands of the skiing. With a history of asthma making things even harder, breathing became so labored, the only option at my disposal was to sit down and try to wait things out. Even that didn't help. For one of the very few times in my life, my Albuteraol rescue inhaler seemed to be needed for a rescue and even that didn't work.
As I sat there gasping for air, the life lesson from the random book emerged as clearly as if the choice of the book was not really a random event at all. Starved for oxygen in the thin atmosphere and too weak to walk, I realized that I was in trouble and needed help. Seemingly from nowhere, people very dear to me took me by the arms and helped me to the hospital. They took care of storing my skis and then waited with me while I recovered at the hospital. Had they gone one about their own personal activites, I would have thought nothing less of them, this was my problem. Yet they didn't . They saw beyond my private facade of "normal" and for one of the few times in my life, I let them see and they helped. In so doing, they not only affirmed the value of their friendship, but they also helped live out the idea of a Godly community where we help, love, share, care, and give to each other.
Although tethered to this oxygen tank for the day and evening as my body recovers, it seems a very small price to pay to know just how much people really care about a person who is just "normal". A reminder that when we do things to the least of His children, we have done it unto Him. Thanks to you all.
Looking for something to fill the 24 hour bus ride from my home to the ski resort in Crested Butte, CO, by change I picked up a copy of John Ortber's book, Everybody's Normal Till You Get to Know Them. The book turned out to be quite interesting as it explored the idea of community from a Godly perspective and how the idea of normal is little more than a metaphorical mask we used to keep people at a distance. The fact that we are all flawed is a problem we share and one we could do a much better job of managing through a little less"normal" and a little more acceptance of people "as is". Admittedly, I have often been hesitant to express my truest feelings even with people that know me pretty well opting instead for the facade of "normal". For a myriad of reasons ranging from "they have enough of their own stuff to deal with" to "they really don't care", I keep my problems to myself. It could be argued that I was the character described in the book - stoic and detached.
After what was a brisk 2 1/2 hours of skiing in truly pristine conditions in the morning, I found myself short of breath and seeemed unable to take in a full breath. Even taking a break for lunch at the Labrador and trying to force extra fluids, my body was not able to recover from the physical demands of the skiing. With a history of asthma making things even harder, breathing became so labored, the only option at my disposal was to sit down and try to wait things out. Even that didn't help. For one of the very few times in my life, my Albuteraol rescue inhaler seemed to be needed for a rescue and even that didn't work.
As I sat there gasping for air, the life lesson from the random book emerged as clearly as if the choice of the book was not really a random event at all. Starved for oxygen in the thin atmosphere and too weak to walk, I realized that I was in trouble and needed help. Seemingly from nowhere, people very dear to me took me by the arms and helped me to the hospital. They took care of storing my skis and then waited with me while I recovered at the hospital. Had they gone one about their own personal activites, I would have thought nothing less of them, this was my problem. Yet they didn't . They saw beyond my private facade of "normal" and for one of the few times in my life, I let them see and they helped. In so doing, they not only affirmed the value of their friendship, but they also helped live out the idea of a Godly community where we help, love, share, care, and give to each other.
Although tethered to this oxygen tank for the day and evening as my body recovers, it seems a very small price to pay to know just how much people really care about a person who is just "normal". A reminder that when we do things to the least of His children, we have done it unto Him. Thanks to you all.
The Bunny Slope
It is an imposing and almost frightening sight for a beginning skier. Even the beginner slopes, as I learned on my first attempt on skis, seem more akin to vertical cliffs than what the trail map would have you to believe. There is a sanctum where pride and ego are set aside, skill is rare, and the birds of that feather are flocked together -- it is the bunny slope.Peachtree, as it is known on the mountain, is the place where beginners go to protect themselves from themselves while gaining some mastery over the skis. As bunny slopes go, it is not the easiest of beginner slopes and actually has some incline along with a short run that requires a little work to navigate. Because it is a short slope, it's not altogther uncommon to find people, either too frustrated or too tired, carrying their skis to the bottom. It also the place where a beginner (like I was) can observe other beginners and start making sense of the mechanics of the skiing process.
After a morning of trial and error, I went back to the ski lift where my first misadventure in skiing took place to try again. Armed with the new knowledge of how to read a trial map, a knee brace, and a resolve to get to the bottom by myself, I lifted myself from the ski lift chair and began my descent. It was slow, but with each fall, the next attempt seemed to be a bit smoother and a bit easier.
I made a new friend briefly after one of the many falls. Lying in the snow trying to catch my breath, I looked up hill to see a young lady heading directly at me. Judging from the speed at which she was approaching and her comment "I don't know how to turn" confirmed she was also a beginner. The look on her face was probably just as surprised as on mine as I replied back "I can't get out of the way". The ensuring crash was cause for more than a little laughter. After exchanging our 'beginner' stories, we parted company never to meet again.
As the day wore on, I continued my onslaught against the mountain. Just a little more than one hour after embarking on this journey and after numerous falls, I finally reached the edge of the final hill. To be able to look down on the ski lodge was the mark of success I'd hoped for the entire day. Not long thereafter, I made it to the bottom and walked off to find the shuttle bus. Sitting there on the bench covered in snow with icicles dangling from the edge of my knitted cap, the slow realization overtook me that I'd actually done it -- I could ski.
In the years since, I've made trips to other locations as well as a return trip to Crested Butte, but nothing will ever beat that first trip where the Butte and I battled. Like so many things are in life, there's nothing like the first time.
Crested Butte - first touch
In just over a week, we'll be making a trip with our church group to Crested Butte, CO to go skiing and frolicking in the snow. For me, this trip marks the 2nd time I've returned since learning to snow here in 1981. While the bus rides to and from are tiring, the fun to be had there makes it all worthwhile. The "Butte" holds many fond memories and is a rich source of fanciful tales.On my very first trip, I had the misfortune to be taken up on the mountain by an experienced skier who was going to save me from "ski school" and teach me the "right way". Unfortunately for both of us, on our first ascent up the mountain he forgot to raise the tips of his skis and fell on his face attemping to disembark from the ski lift chair. Although he tried to move out of the way, with no experience on the slopes, it was not in my power to avoid skiing up his face leaving him a 2 inch laceration on his cheek as a souvenir of our first ski lesson. My ski lesson continued by waiting for him to complete the accident forms then watching as the ski patrol put him back on the ski lift to ride back to the bottom of the slope -- without me. And there it was, the bleak reality that my first ski lesson would be a solo flight down the mountain side. To be blunt, the trip down the mountain was not a pleasant one. It ended about halfway down the mountain with me staring skyward with a twisted knee, broken pole, wounded spirits, and serious questions about my sanity. It wasn't very long before some kindly folks stopped to inform me the way to attract the ski patrol was to cross my skis over my body. This signal would let them know I was hurt. That was a handy bit of information I'd have enjoyed knowing a bit sooner. It wasn't long before the ski patrol stopped by, strapped my into the evacuation sled, and carried me to the bottom.
With nothing to show as a success, it was an inglorious end to a day rife with frustration and pain. Although day 2 was spent nursing the sore knee and contemplating the warmth of the fire, there was something magnetic about the slopes -- it could be done, people could ski -- I'd seen them and I would not be denied.
What was that they were saying about a "bunny slope"?
Notes from the front
This is an email sent from my brother John in Afghanistan - didn't want it misplaced.
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In the last five days my unit has seen four soldiers killed in action. Tomorrow morning we will have our third Ramp Ceremony for the week. The Ramp Ceremony, by design, is performed to show the highest level of respect for those who have died in battle as their bodies are loaded on the plane that will fly them home. There is an intensive effort here to bring honor to these men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. While the ceremony is designed as a tribute to the fallen soldier, deep down I know that it is actually for me. With each ceremony, I have realized that its personal impact on me is cumulative. Each event brings a point of closure, but at the same time, an intensifying reality check on how fragile life actually is. I am surrounded by a constant reminder that we have no promise of tomorrow, much less next week or next year.
On a normal day I sit at my desk and listen to people complain; I have to walk too far to use the latrine, there aren’t any paper towels, the a/c is not cool enough, or someone tracked dirt in my office. All of this absurd whining takes place in the safety and the security of our office building. Meanwhile, our soldiers are putting on their gear and fearlessly driving into the local towns and villages to face a hidden enemy. Their only goal is to do the right thing. Every day they go out. Sometimes, they come back.
Today another American soldier was lost. I wonder if his baby daughter will ever understand why her daddy died in Afghanistan. Will she ever be able to grasp the complexity of war? Can she tell the difference between an insurgent and one who fights for freedom? Will that little girl care about the politics or will she just cry when her daddy doesn’t come home for Christmas? What peace will that beautifully wrapped Christmas present bring her, when she holds it instead of holding her daddy? But, in the end, her daddy is gone and he won’t be home for Christmas.
The Ramp Ceremony brings a momentary lull to an airfield that operates at full capacity 24 hours a day, seven days a week. There is a sense that time stands still as the massive C-17 Cargo plane pulls into place. The plane sits on the tarmac in an eerie silence as the rear aft door slowly drops. In the distance you can hear the vocal commands of the honor guard and you can almost feel each step as 30 soldiers march their way toward the rear of the plane. They methodically separate into two columns and cordon a path of honor for their fallen comrade.
The order is given to “Present Arms” as a vehicle slowly pulls forward with one more American hero. Arms are raised in salute as eight fellow soldiers, in drilled precision, move forward and take charge of the casket. As the flag draped casket is slowly marched toward the plane, the drum like sounds of boots echo across the airfield. You hear the voice of the detachment commander, “left, left, left…” as he leads the procession toward the rear of the plane that will take this soldier home for the last time.
As these days have passed, I find myself almost feeling guilty if I laugh or smile. Yet, I remember the words of John 10:10 when Jesus said, “I came that you might have life and have it abundantly.” I often ask myself where the realities of war and the call for abundant life come together. I pray that someday, I will find that answer.
Tonight I will pray for a mother that I do not know. Tonight I will cry for a child that I have never seen. Tonight my heart will break for a world that does not realize the magnitude of what they just lost.
- MAJ John D. Parker
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In the last five days my unit has seen four soldiers killed in action. Tomorrow morning we will have our third Ramp Ceremony for the week. The Ramp Ceremony, by design, is performed to show the highest level of respect for those who have died in battle as their bodies are loaded on the plane that will fly them home. There is an intensive effort here to bring honor to these men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. While the ceremony is designed as a tribute to the fallen soldier, deep down I know that it is actually for me. With each ceremony, I have realized that its personal impact on me is cumulative. Each event brings a point of closure, but at the same time, an intensifying reality check on how fragile life actually is. I am surrounded by a constant reminder that we have no promise of tomorrow, much less next week or next year.
On a normal day I sit at my desk and listen to people complain; I have to walk too far to use the latrine, there aren’t any paper towels, the a/c is not cool enough, or someone tracked dirt in my office. All of this absurd whining takes place in the safety and the security of our office building. Meanwhile, our soldiers are putting on their gear and fearlessly driving into the local towns and villages to face a hidden enemy. Their only goal is to do the right thing. Every day they go out. Sometimes, they come back.
Today another American soldier was lost. I wonder if his baby daughter will ever understand why her daddy died in Afghanistan. Will she ever be able to grasp the complexity of war? Can she tell the difference between an insurgent and one who fights for freedom? Will that little girl care about the politics or will she just cry when her daddy doesn’t come home for Christmas? What peace will that beautifully wrapped Christmas present bring her, when she holds it instead of holding her daddy? But, in the end, her daddy is gone and he won’t be home for Christmas.
The Ramp Ceremony brings a momentary lull to an airfield that operates at full capacity 24 hours a day, seven days a week. There is a sense that time stands still as the massive C-17 Cargo plane pulls into place. The plane sits on the tarmac in an eerie silence as the rear aft door slowly drops. In the distance you can hear the vocal commands of the honor guard and you can almost feel each step as 30 soldiers march their way toward the rear of the plane. They methodically separate into two columns and cordon a path of honor for their fallen comrade.
The order is given to “Present Arms” as a vehicle slowly pulls forward with one more American hero. Arms are raised in salute as eight fellow soldiers, in drilled precision, move forward and take charge of the casket. As the flag draped casket is slowly marched toward the plane, the drum like sounds of boots echo across the airfield. You hear the voice of the detachment commander, “left, left, left…” as he leads the procession toward the rear of the plane that will take this soldier home for the last time.
As these days have passed, I find myself almost feeling guilty if I laugh or smile. Yet, I remember the words of John 10:10 when Jesus said, “I came that you might have life and have it abundantly.” I often ask myself where the realities of war and the call for abundant life come together. I pray that someday, I will find that answer.
Tonight I will pray for a mother that I do not know. Tonight I will cry for a child that I have never seen. Tonight my heart will break for a world that does not realize the magnitude of what they just lost.
- MAJ John D. Parker
Mariott crickets
Found the most novel little poem waiting on the nightstand in my room at the Mariott Plaza in San Antonio last week.
The Cricket Visit
It's that time of year
When the crickets come here
So we try our best to make
Them steer clear.
With the rise in water
And the rise in heat
There's a pretty chance
The two of you meet.
To keep them outside
Is what we are wishin'
But they make great bait
In case you go fishin.
So we apologize now
For the yearly occasion
Please enjoy your stay
For work or vacation.
Thanks for "Your" visit.
The Marriott Plaza Staff
Nice place and good people - never saw a cricket.
The Cricket Visit
It's that time of year
When the crickets come here
So we try our best to make
Them steer clear.
With the rise in water
And the rise in heat
There's a pretty chance
The two of you meet.
To keep them outside
Is what we are wishin'
But they make great bait
In case you go fishin.
So we apologize now
For the yearly occasion
Please enjoy your stay
For work or vacation.
Thanks for "Your" visit.
The Marriott Plaza Staff
Nice place and good people - never saw a cricket.
The Alamo
Davy Crockett was quoted as saying, "You can go to hell, I am going to Texas." Having lived there and visited several times, it would at times be a difficult distinction to make. With that little disclaimer out of the way, I'll tell my tale.
As I mentioned, I've visited Texas several times and lived here for a few years, but this week I made my first trip to San Antonio compliments of the ASBDC convention. My first trip into this area surprised me in that the city seemed devoid of people. On my daily walk between hotels, I don't recall seeing more than a dozen people and not many more cars. After several days of trying to assess where the people of this city spent their days, I finally found them hanging around the Alamo, which appears to be the cultural and tourist attractant for the city.
The Alamo, as you may know, is a shrine preserved in remembrance of the valiant few that fought and died between the period of Feb. 23, 1836 and March 3, 1836 in a failed attempt to defend the borders of a fledgling republic. Led by Colonel William Travis and others including the American cultural icon Davey Crockett, the siege which set upon the the small Catholic cathedral overcame the resistance of the group who, save women and children, were killed as the battle wained under the onslaught and of the Mexican nationals.
What struck me about the Alamo was the size. For the perceived enormity of its importance in the annals of Texas' history, the church building is a small place. The church, which served as the entry point into the complex of housing and military barracks, was not more than 100 feet from front to back. Its layout was similar to that of the Vatican with a central corridor which would have housed the altar and other vestments and smaller rooms to each side accommodating the diverse needs of the worship experience. Although the entire complex of buildings stretches across several acres, the central historical focus is on the cathedral.
What may be the best representation of the battle is a diorama in the center of the gift shop for visitors. Constructed from the historical records of the buildings, the commodious complex springs to life as hundreds of miniature figures reenact the battle of 1836. Looking at the battle from an omniscient view can only lead one to consider how futile the defenders of the Alamo must have felt their efforts to be as members of the militia, international in their origin, died one by one.
There was listed among the fallen patriots one Christopher Parker of Mississippi. Given the personal roots that stretch into that state, this will be a person I must research further. Since we've already established some lineage links to the infamous Bonnie Parker (of Bonnie & Clyde fame), it would be nice to find someone with a more reputable background.
Glad I made the walk to see the place and grab another little slice of American (Texas) history to which I can say -- been there, done that.
As I mentioned, I've visited Texas several times and lived here for a few years, but this week I made my first trip to San Antonio compliments of the ASBDC convention. My first trip into this area surprised me in that the city seemed devoid of people. On my daily walk between hotels, I don't recall seeing more than a dozen people and not many more cars. After several days of trying to assess where the people of this city spent their days, I finally found them hanging around the Alamo, which appears to be the cultural and tourist attractant for the city.
The Alamo, as you may know, is a shrine preserved in remembrance of the valiant few that fought and died between the period of Feb. 23, 1836 and March 3, 1836 in a failed attempt to defend the borders of a fledgling republic. Led by Colonel William Travis and others including the American cultural icon Davey Crockett, the siege which set upon the the small Catholic cathedral overcame the resistance of the group who, save women and children, were killed as the battle wained under the onslaught and of the Mexican nationals.
What struck me about the Alamo was the size. For the perceived enormity of its importance in the annals of Texas' history, the church building is a small place. The church, which served as the entry point into the complex of housing and military barracks, was not more than 100 feet from front to back. Its layout was similar to that of the Vatican with a central corridor which would have housed the altar and other vestments and smaller rooms to each side accommodating the diverse needs of the worship experience. Although the entire complex of buildings stretches across several acres, the central historical focus is on the cathedral.
What may be the best representation of the battle is a diorama in the center of the gift shop for visitors. Constructed from the historical records of the buildings, the commodious complex springs to life as hundreds of miniature figures reenact the battle of 1836. Looking at the battle from an omniscient view can only lead one to consider how futile the defenders of the Alamo must have felt their efforts to be as members of the militia, international in their origin, died one by one.
There was listed among the fallen patriots one Christopher Parker of Mississippi. Given the personal roots that stretch into that state, this will be a person I must research further. Since we've already established some lineage links to the infamous Bonnie Parker (of Bonnie & Clyde fame), it would be nice to find someone with a more reputable background.
Glad I made the walk to see the place and grab another little slice of American (Texas) history to which I can say -- been there, done that.
It's a just a convertible
It looked like this in the beginning when the yearning to drive a small convertible first became a part of my psyche. I don't really remember the first time the Triumph TR-6 caught my attention, but it was sometime around 1973 after returning from my first cruise onboard the USS Mount Baker. As we disembarked. a shipmate took delivery of his new car. Although his was green, it looked just like the one in this picutre. For a number of reasons, both real and imagined though, I continued to talk myself out of buying one for my entire tour of duty. It always seemed to me a bit silly to live on a ship and have need of a car. That was a decision I've reflected on with some regret for the past 37 years as school, family, career, etc. gave ample cause to continue to opt out of buying a small convertible in favor or more important things. For many years, my primary mode of transport was marked by one word - functional. Even within that rather limiting descriptor, I've enjoyed a variety of vehicles although they all shared that one common trait.
Not too long ago, my most recent minivan rolled past 175,000 miles. Over the course of 10 years, aside from tires and routine maintenance, the vehicle was only in the repair shop twice. By any reasonable measure it was a reliable vehicle and well worth its $25,000 purchase price in April 2000. However, the years of wear and tear marked by soccer and softball tournaments, family vacations, and commuting to/from school took a toll on the vehicle. While nothing was 'broken', things were signalling that trouble was ahead - broken exhaust manifold bolt and an odd humming noise from the transmission topped the list. Repairs (and money to effect them) loomed in the not to distant future. Even knowing there was some expense coming in the future, it was hard to make the decision to get rid of it. The bigger question was what to buy next.
I spent a lot of time looking at crossover vehicles, SUVs, pickup trucks, and even some traditional vehicles. Yet, each time I drove by the Mazda dealership, this little silver MX-5 would catch my eye and turn my thoughts back to early 1970s. At some point, the issues of rational and functional gave way to desirable and entertaining - and, as new cars go, it really wasn't that expensive. Those seemed like good reasons to buy one. And while I'm not yet old, I'm certainly closer to the finish line than the starting gate. So, it also seemed like a good idea to buy the little convertible while I could still get in and out of it without help. Amid the laughter and comments about mid-life crisis, I took this item off my 'bucket list'.
My only regret -- should have done this years ago! 
Spaghetti Carbonara
Living in Italy in the late 1970s, this pasta dish was my absolute favorite.
Prep/cooking time: 30-45 minutes Serves 4
INGREDIENTS:
1 pound spaghetti
8 ounces sliced bacon (cut 1/2-inch segments)
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
3 large eggs
3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
1/2 cup half-and-half (heavy cream works too)
DIRECTIONS:
Bring the eggs to near room temperature. Set a large pot of water to boil (for pasta).
In a large skillet, cook bacon over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until crisp, 8 to 12 minutes; transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate.
Salt boiling water generously; add pasta and cook until al dente, according to package instructions.
Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together eggs, Parmesan, and half-and-half. Set aside.
Drain pasta, leaving some water clinging to it. Working quickly, add hot pasta to egg mixture. Add bacon; season with salt and pepper, and toss all to combine (heat from pasta will cook eggs).
Serve immediately, sprinkle with additional Parmesan cheese as desired.
Yield: 4 servings
As a final footnote - it does not re-heat well, so, go ahead and stuff yourself.
Prep/cooking time: 30-45 minutes Serves 4
INGREDIENTS:
1 pound spaghetti
8 ounces sliced bacon (cut 1/2-inch segments)
Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper
3 large eggs
3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
1/2 cup half-and-half (heavy cream works too)
DIRECTIONS:
Bring the eggs to near room temperature. Set a large pot of water to boil (for pasta).
In a large skillet, cook bacon over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until crisp, 8 to 12 minutes; transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate.
Salt boiling water generously; add pasta and cook until al dente, according to package instructions.
Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk together eggs, Parmesan, and half-and-half. Set aside.
Drain pasta, leaving some water clinging to it. Working quickly, add hot pasta to egg mixture. Add bacon; season with salt and pepper, and toss all to combine (heat from pasta will cook eggs).
Serve immediately, sprinkle with additional Parmesan cheese as desired.
Yield: 4 servings
As a final footnote - it does not re-heat well, so, go ahead and stuff yourself.
Airline competition
The airline industry, floundering and failing in a down economy and against growing competition, seems to be looking at a new business model for its survival. For the most part, air travel has become a commodity differentiated only by the color of the flight attendant uniforms. Overlapping routes and time slots have forced airlines to compete against one another solely on price. Although many people seek to blame Southwest Airlines for this problem, the fault lies in the individual airlines inability to provide a unique experience for which customers are willing to pay.
The new approach will no longer be based on competition, but rather on control. In recent weeks, major airlines have swapped slots between airports. A slot essentially gives an airline the right to reserve a time for a plane to land and take off. By giving an airline a greater number of slots at a specific airport, the airline gains more control over a greater number of passenger seats at that destination. By owning the bulk of the landing slots at a specific airport, the airline can also exercise more control over price usurping the need to compete on price. The smaller airlines will still be able to compete on price, but won't grow sufficiently due to slot restrictions which will constrain the number of seats they can make available.
In this "free-market exercise", it appears the airline executives have agreed to slice up the country among themselves so that each can control a major section of the market. While the new model won't be called a a monopoly, it will certainly begin to behave like one. Expect fares to rise and for customer service to continue to erode. What should not be expected is a return to profitability. Even with control over the airport, technology has transformed how business is done and the need for face-to-face exchanges continues to decline. People just don't have the need to fly anymore.
It will be interesting to see in a decade whether this deregulated industry finds itself reregulated and looking a lot like Amtrack.
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