When sitcoms grow stale in their fifth or sixth seasons, the writers rely on a few tricks to reinvigorate the show and bring back viewers. Wedding episodes are always popular for some reason; or sometimes they’ll add a cherubic youngster to make sassy quips at the adults, most often when the show’s previous child actor has grown too old to still be cute. My personal favorite sitcom ruse is when the entire family decides to go on vacation. In the 1980s and ’90s this meant the cast would be filming on location and a laugh track would be added later on in production, creating a surreal experience of canned ghost laughter following the characters around whatever new locale they were visiting. It was creepy and I loved it. Plus it generally meant a two-part episode, separated by a wacky cliffhanger. I’m a sucker for cliffhangers, even if the twist is no more exciting than Michelle Tanner going missing in Disney World after being a bitch to her sisters.
After my breakup with Riley, I found that Portland felt a little claustrophobic. I was no longer pining for days gone by, yet I lingered in the midst of a funk I couldn’t shake. I felt like I was in a fishbowl; I could see the city, but I didn’t feel like I was really living in it. I was itching for a change of pace, to “clear my head,” as Anglo-Saxon children of suburbia so often lament. I decided I would travel, ignoring the fact that my bank balance was hovering somewhere close to zero. Fortunately, my credit card limit had just been inexplicably increased, so I set my sights on a trip. Uncertain of where to go, I opted to let the fates decide. I spun the plastic globe I keep on my desk.
With Plan A an abject failure, I racked my memory banks of world geography. I’m the first to admit that my knowledge of the world is limited. In my brain, all of Europe is stuck in a prewar sepia-toned state of gloom. Asia is mysterious and dangerous and full of dragons. Africa is the same, minus the dragons. Feeling like I was at a loss, I considered the American sitcom, as I so often do when it comes to making decisions.
On Friends they went to London, but I didn’t feel like leaving one rainy city for another. On Roseanne the Conners went to Las Vegas and Disney World. I thought, I don’t like to gamble and I’m a-scared of rides. The cast of Full House similarly took trips to Vegas and Disney World, but they also vacationed in Hawaii. I considered this, and suddenly it seemed like such an obvious decision. Hawaii. It was sort of exotic, but not tremendously expensive, and I remembered I had a friend named Park who had moved from Boston to Hawaii for work. It had been years since we’d caught up, but I figured it would be worth a shot to ask him if I could crash on his couch. I emailed Park and told him I was considering a visit to the island, asking if he’d mind playing host. Being the laid-back guy he is, his reply was, “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I booked a flight immediately.
The buyer’s high wore off pretty quickly when I realized I was going to have to get on an airplane in a matter of weeks. I always overlook this horrifying little tidbit when I travel. I can’t stand flying. Growing up it never bothered me, but several years ago on a flight from Boston to Montana I experienced some heinous turbulence that wrecked me for good. I remember it like it was yesterday. The flight had been smooth—almost suspiciously so. I was just about to bite into my twelve-dollar turkey sandwich and enjoy the in-flight presentation of Beverly Hills Chihuahua when the pilot chimed in over the intercom.
The rest of the flight was not unlike a roller-coaster ride. The flight attendants belted themselves into their seats at the front of the aircraft, and it’s the only time I’ve ever seen a member of a flight crew look worried. The man sitting next to me began to hyperventilate and then passed out. When we landed, the pilot came back on the intercom and said, “Whew, we made it.” He sounded shaken.
Since that flight, I’ve never been comfortable in the air. The slightest bit of turbulence sends me into a tailspin of panic. Once bitten, twice shy, three times a lady, et cetera. Now it’s a struggle just to avoid having a nervous breakdown in the airport, let alone on the airplane, so I try to keep calm by occupying myself with little games. My favorite is Airport Bingo. It’s simple: Before I get to the terminal, I construct a Bingo card in my head of things one might see at an airport, and then spend the time before my flight seeing how many I can mark off. Sometimes I’ll construct a physical grid on a napkin or a scrap of paper. It’s like people-watching, only more judgmental.