Flying With A Guitar

All my life I dreamed of traveling. When we would drop grandma off at the airport to go back to San Jose after her visits in the 60s, the large PSA jets came into view and I always got excited. One day, I said to myself, I am gonna be the one leaving! The caustic smell of spent diesel fuel emanating from curbside buses still reminds me of those days at LAX.

My dreams of travel were realized when I started to play music professionally. My constant travel buddy, and nuisance, has been a guitar. I have always gotten glaring looks of disapproval from distrusting flight attendants who questioned (still do) whether or not the case would fit in an overhead bin. On commuter flights, I realized my friend would have to ride with the baggage since small planes have little or no on-board stowage space. I make a point to ask them to place the guitar on top of the pile so she won't get crushed. The airline person usually obliges, and most of the time, follows through on my special request.

Getting on board a larger plane, when the case can fit in an overhead compartment, is a nerve-racking experience for me. I get itchy because I know a newbie flight attendant, pink-cheeked and fresh from training, is going to spot me and thumb through her little rule book only to inform me that I must check the case at the gate. The problem is that the evil baggage loaders on the large planes work under the cover of darkness (as opposed to the commuter--where you can watch them load) and they carelessly toss your precious possession into the hull like a discarded trash bag. My acoustic guitars cost around $2500 a shot...they don't give a rip.

Like spotting a newbie attendant, it's easy to spot an old pro. She's the one smoking a cigarette, with lipstick ajar and hair disheveled, leaning against the galley wall with a "let's get this over with" look on her face. She's the one I try to connect glances with. Old Pro knows the book but tossed it out years ago because it was written by goons who have never flown a day in their lives. She usually leads me to a coat closet or to an empty bin where I place my guitar with room to spare. She winks, smacks her chewing gum, and waddles back to watch the newbie do all the work.

My trepidation subsides until I get back on another plane to return home. The sweet thing about my job is that it involves guitars. I have no reason to complain.