Itinerary:
LAX (USA)—>Amsterdam
Amsterdam —>Belgrade (Serbia)
Belgrade —>Podgorica (Montenegro).
Podgorica —> Niksic (our new home town).
Travellers:
2 Adults, 4 kids plus 1 baby safely tucked inside a baby sling
21 Boxes, bags, and suitcases.
7 Carry-ons.
2 stuffed animals and dollies.
In 1996, you and your well-wishing friends and family could get all the way to the plane’s gate before having to hug and kiss and cry and say good-bye. The seven us, plus my parents and a family of dear friends (who drove a second van with the aforementioned baggage) made it to Tom Bradley International Terminal, Gate 51 with plenty of time to spare. And thus, too much time to say good-bye. Excitement and hope and fear all mixed together. One advantage of having a young family to keep me busy was that it left me little time to indulge (over indulge?) in speculation. Good-byes meshed into settling ourselves in the plane.
The children did quite well on the flight. The baby nursed and slept as very young babies do. The others were enjoying the thrill of flying for the first time. Plus it helped that we picked a later flight so they could sleep at a natural hour and they did, on that first long-haul flight from LAX to Schipol Airport.
Truth is, flights were easy, layovers were hard. On the airplane, there was always plenty of food and drink (just ask!), plus seats with seatbelts (meaning no kids getting lost), and two parents to parent. Layovers involved Stan disappearing to wait in line and take care of boarding passes while I juggled 5 children in crowded terminals at 3 am (California time which at that point was the only time that mattered) with not enough seats (and no seat belts for the wiggle worms). I clearly remember playing long sessions of Mother May I, Simon Says, I Spy, and other stalwart tricks of the trade. Hard as it was to be “on” when I wanted to be “off”, perseverance made the trip go better than it otherwise would have.
The real low-point of that first transatlantic venture happened not in Amsterdam, but on the next leg, into Yugoslavia itself. While Jugo Airlines’ planes were inspected-and-considered-safe for international flying, the passengers were all Balkan (who else was going INTO a war-torn, economically-depressed region?), and they followed their own rules re: smoking and waiting politely. With all smoke alarms disabled, it seemed like every passenger brazenly puffed cigarettes non-stop, ignoring the “No Smoking” signs prominently lit above every pair of seats. That 2+ hour plane ride to Belgrade occurred in a haze of stale and fresh smoke; we were all gasping for air when we landed.
Back then, the Belgrade airport was tiny—just a couple of gates—and Stan once again did his disappearing act to get boarding passes and to gather and recheck our luggage (the assorted 21!) through to Montenegro while the children and I sat in a stupor, on hard plastic seats, hunched over, exhausted, no Mother-May-I games forthcoming now. That trip taught me never to think uncharitable thoughts (Tsk, tsk. Have they no self respect?) of people sprawled out in airport waiting areas. I fully get the hows-and-whys….
With my kids scattered and stretched out trying to get comfortable and the baby tucked safely in her baby sling, I looked around at the stark, gray and grimy, Commie-era concrete waiting area we were sitting in and wondered just what we had gotten ourselves into. What kind of people smoke on a plane with clearly marked “No Smoking” signs? What part of “No” don’t they get? And for that matter, what is with the LITTER? Trash everywhere! despite a trash can in plain sight? Who ARE these people?” It was a clear moment of realizing I wasn’t with MY people anymore. I was an alien, in an alien world.
