Flying high with jet fuel? No, just gas

Ijust flew into Medford last night, and loved every minute of it. I love airplanes, I love airports, and I love flight attendants with their adorable sets of matching luggage pieces. If I didn't have this little job known as "parenting" to take care of I would be showing passengers how to tighten their seatbelts and locate the nearest emergency exit in a heartbeat. This is despite the fact that I am probably one of the most anxious flyers to ever hit the sky in a metal tube with wings.

I love airports enough to overcome my fear of flying because I like the fact that everyone is going somewhere. This is the same reason that I hope to one day own a house with a view overlooking the freeway. I like seeing all the busy people in that brief moment of their busy lives. Everyone is going home, or leaving home. People on vacation, people traveling for work, people going to see family, it all fascinates me.

A nice thing about the the Rogue Valley International-Medford Airport is that there is not usually any good reason to have to arrive two hours prior to your flight departure time. It's a small, efficient airport, which doesn't usually have more than one or two flights leaving at around the same time. Honestly, it takes me longer to get past my cats at the back door than it does to get through security at our local airport.

Of course, I always arrive two hours early anyway. Those two hours are some of the best of my entire trip. I get to sit and stretch out my legs. I get to read trashy magazines in public without anyone judging me (if there is one socially acceptable place to get caught up on your celebrity drama then it is the airport lobby). The fact of the matter is, it probably looks more suspicious at the Medford airport to be one of the people who arrive two hours early, than arriving at the last minute. I can only imagine that the security officers are watching me thinking, "Why is she here so early? What could she possibly be doing for the next 2 hours? Hmm "… Seems suspicious."

Airports also are amazing for one other thing, airport food. The Portland International Airport in particular has a delicious hot dog restaurant inside the terminal. If I lived in Portland, I would be extremely disappointed that these sausages only are available to travelers. Hot dogs are one of my favorite foods. At work I sometimes eat hot dogs with mac and cheese; I call it the "Four-Year-Old Special."

On this last trip of mine, I ate a very spicy hot dog with lots and lots of sauerkraut, hot sauce and mustard. At first my only concern was that my seat-neighbor would be bothered by my breath, so I chewed a lot of gum out of consideration for this anonymous person who lie in my future. Turns out that my breath should not have been my most major concern. I should have been more concerned about the possibility of horrible, gut-wrenching gas.

When Silas was a baby, I was always happy to see another baby on the flight because I felt like I could pass the blame for any fussing, whining or screaming onto the other child (Silas was almost always good on the plane — the fussing, whining and screaming usually were coming from me).

On this flight, after my dinner of sauerkraut and sausages, I was on a mission to find a poor, unsuspecting person to blame my gas on. So if you flew into Medford last week, I would like to apologize, I was probably trying to shift my stomach rumbling blame onto you.

Zoe Abel is back with her two feet on the ground. That's not her stomach rumbling, it's yours. You can email her at

Share This Story