“Let us be the first to welcome you to Costa Rica.” This is completely unfair. No one, including my boyfriend sitting twelve inches away, has had a chance to welcome me. As soon as the wheels come down and I unclench, American Airlines is on the intercom, pre-empting other welcomes. Again. American Airlines welcomes me to nearly everyplace I go. They’re a very welcoming bunch.
On the one hand, there’s a comforting familiarity to this since I am, at best, a crabby flier and, at worst, a catatonic, break-down-in-tears-because-they’ve-run-out-of-chicken/ginger ale/snack packs flier. On the other hand, like seeing the golden arches, it is also slightly distressing that everywhere in the world is becoming slightly similar.
Just once, I would like to hear the instructions about flotation devices and oxygen in a language I cannot understand. I get the basics – seatbelts just don’t present the challenge they used to – and the ones I’ve never quite grasped are apparently useless anyway, just something to keep us feeling secure before an emergency and busy during one.
If I could hear those words in Taiwanese, say, it would give me that first-time-all-over-again feeling or at least raise my blood pressure a little as I panicked for an instant wondering if there were something I’d missed, something new, something different, some new bracing position they suggest I assume, some new contraption that would unexpectedly drop from the ceiling, like a fire extinguisher or a sock puppet. That’s all I’m asking. Before I take off or after I land, something a little shiny and new, a little excitement. You know what I’m saying.
Displaced 
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