My husband and my first trip away together came as a surprise. We suddenly had two weeks off from our business and children (why is a whole other story). We found out on a Sunday. I combed the phone books looking for an open travel agent. I found a sweet older lady who had recently retired, got bored and opened her own travel agency. She went to work planning an impromptu vacation to the Caribbean. She was amazed at how easy the reservations went, everything I wanted was available at the price I could pay. She booked us to leave on Tuesday. As I was leaving, she snickered and said, “Don’t forget to join the Mile High Club.”
“What is that?”
She smiled over her computer and explained, “The Mile High Club is when married people make love on the plane while in the air.”
“How do they do that?” I asked, still in Mommy mode.
“You get creative.”
I left with tickets in hand, pondering the possibilities. I made the mistake of mentioning the Mile High Club to my husband, who soon became obsessed with it.
“No, not ever, no way, don’t even ask.” Was my response.
Off to the Caribbean we flew and had a great time. No mention of the Mile High Club on the way there.
On the second to last day of the vacation, with too much blood in his rum stream, my husband decided it was a great idea to jump off a local waterfall. He stripped naked like the native boys and launched off a 150-foot waterfall. His spine connected with a rock on the way down breaking his two bottom vertebrae. With only a M.A.S.H. unit available and nothing stronger than an aspirin anywhere in site, we booked a flight home and dosed him with natural painkillers and more rum. I thought the Mile High Club idea was gone for good when he couldn’t even put his seat and tray in an upright position at take-off.
The last leg of the flight was overbooked, so we sat five rows apart from each other. After the captain turned off the seat belt sign, I was passed a note from my injured Hubby, instructing me to meet him in the back bathroom for my induction in the Mile High Club. Knowing I was truly dealing with an insane person, I ventured back for this impossible task. He convinced me it was the only painkiller that would work. We got creative.
Suddenly there was a knock on the bathroom door. I panicked and told him to leave first, and that I would follow five minutes later. He left, I counted to 60 five times and opened the door. To my horror, there were around thirty people standing in line for this bathroom. Thirty people who saw my husband come out first. Thirty people I had to pass and say, “Excuse me” to get back to my seat. Thirty people who gave me the hairy eyeball. With my face beet red and about to die from embarrassment, I passed my husband’s seat. He looked up, smiled and shouted, “Thanks, Mam!
He had a ball telling my sweet little travel agent the story. I will never fly that airline again as I am sure my picture is on each plane labeled as deviant.
So now, I consider myself an expert on romantic tryst while traveling. Here are some tips:
If you’re flying and in need of privacy, go to the back of the wide body plane, use the center row and lots of little blue blankets. On the other hand, if you can afford it, buy up the entire first class section. If the restroom is your only option, it will require gymnastic like maneuvers. The bathrooms for handicapped and mothers changing tables have the most room.
I have a friend who was a stewardess for Pam Am that used to fly between Japan and Hawaii. She tells of half the flight being full of honeymooners with no patience to wait for over threshold traditions. She would move them to the back and give the stodgy passenger up front headsets in which she played the movie at maximum volume.
If you are stuck in the airport for a long time and the romantic bug hits, I would suggest finding the Admiral’s Club. This will not only drive those dot com executives crazy, but will give you a break from the crowds. If that is not a possibility, go to the last gate in those long corridors. Make sure that no flight is expected for at least three hours. Go behind the airline check-in counter, as they are empty between arrivals and departures. My last suggestion is the most comfortable. Take the shuttle to the local Hilton, find the pool and have a great time. At least there he can buy you a drink and a sandwich at the bar afterwards.
If you are driving in the car, please pull over. No matter how exciting the idea may be, driving and loving is worse than drinking and driving. There should be a law. Rest stops usually have park like settings with proper trees and big bushes for cover. If you can’t wait, “30 miles to the next rest stop” then try a truck stop. Wedge the Honda between 18-wheelers and have at it. The truckers won’t mind, it gives them road stories.
Everything you ever needed to rekindle the romance in your marriage is on the road. So have fun, be creative and love well. Just remember you will have to explain to your daughter when she turns 18 why her name is “Lavatory”.