My fingertips burned as if I had just picked up a hot coal. I clenched and unclenched my fist as best as I could consider they were buried beneath four layers of various gloves and mittens. My ears hurt badly earlier but now, mercifully, they had gone numb along with my feet about ten minutes ago. In fact, most of me was numb. I tried again to open my overall's pocket and extract my camera but my hands were still completely useless. "Hey, Zack!" A heavy Spanish accent from behind. I ignored it; I had to concentrate on the pocket. Since I was sitting up front, it was my job to take pictures and, as it was painfully obvious now, shield the others from the 40km/hr wind. "Zack, turn around." A German voice from beneath a pile of scarves and hats that was seated behind me. Fire raced to meet the newly exposed left side of my face. We glided over a bump as I turned and the last bit of sensation from my fingers was that of the button of my overalls slipping out of my grip. "Damnit. What?" I met three pairs of eyes and a camera flash. At least I could leave mine in my pocket for a while.
About two pages into my book I had nodded off. I had smartly given myself the seat by the window that was directly behind the emergency exit row. Those of you who know your 737 airframes will know that the 700 model has only two seats instead of the usual three seats per row on the two emergency exit rows over the wing. This leaves the lucky (or smart) guy in the window seat in the row behind with double the legroom. The familiar thud-clunk and simultaneous decrease in airspeed brought me back to the SAS cabin I had left for the last hour. I was probably dreaming of coconut palms and bikinis. Landing gears should come with a snooze button. The faint scent of pretzels and "doo-dad"s replaced tanning oil. I don't remember when, but at some time the little bag of peanuts had been phased out. My thoughts turned to the masses of peanut farms and union workers who had to find other jobs now because of three people who are allergic to peanuts...that's nature's way of telling you not to eat snacks on airplanes.
My peanut sidetrack was cut short because I looked out the window. I was sure now I was dreaming of sand and sea and brown girls because now I was very angry. Below was a sea of white, like clouds. This was not unusual considering I was in an airplane, but the black veins of trees and the occasional miniature red building ruined the illusion. Why the hell, I asked myself, would I willingly go to the Arctic Circle in February. The landing was fairly standard, the plane got lower until it touched the ground--but we touched down, everything was different. The runway was snow and ice from end to end with a few hundred meters of tarmac that had been grooved like the emergency lanes on American highways. Reverse thrust and airbrakes were deployed but no wheel brakes. The count of ten. Then jerking back and forth like my Uncle Horst coming to a yellow light at the bottom of a New Jersey hill. The count of twenty. The pilot turned the plane on a dime pointed towards what I assumed was a large stable and cut the turbines. Stillness, cabin lights, and hasty opening of overhead compartments. I used caution--because the contents of overhead compartments can shift during flight.
Out of the window, it was now apparent we were not just careening through some farm, but had landed at the airport. And it was snowing. Back home this would excite me, as it does to all lowcountry kids, to a riotous froth. But I started to shiver, at first just to practice, but then because cabin doors were wide open and the hot, recirculated air was escaping. Nico, my roommate and jealous (because of the legroom) neighbor must have read my face because he shook my arm in the way that he always does and smiled, "Zack! We are in Kiruna! Zaaaack!"
I didn't have long to be sad because they brought up the big metal stairs. I love the big metal stairs and boarding/disembarking directly onto the tarmac instead of the distinctly foul-smelling umbilical cord known as the Jetway. The Jetway, as far as I'm concerned, is the single worst part of flying commercially. It's worse than the mouth-breather with bad breath sleeping in the seat next to you and worse than US Air's beef stroganov (the smell is the same). I could write a whole doctoral thesis on the inefficiency of and my grievances with the Jetway...but you aren't here to read about the inconveniences of flying--there are plenty of hardworking comedians who have made a good deal of a living just on this.
I excitedly pushed passed the slower passengers, a big no-no in orderly Sweden. I few sincere ursäkta-s (ur-sheck-dah)-s later I was out of the door and onto a big set of caution-yellow stairs with snow swirling in the floodlamps. I was about to do the presidential two-fingered peace sign that I usually do when I get to use the stairs, but my first breath of arctic air brought me to caught at once. By the time I reached to sliding doors and knocked the snow off my boots, I had learned my first arctic survival tip: breathe short and often, and cover your face.
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