Babies on a Plane

I love people watching. There are few places that offer a better chance to observe human nature than an airport. It’s been a while since I shared an air travel story, so put your tray tables up, your seat in the upright position, and buckle up for a story from 10,000 ft.

My flight from Washington, D.C. to Los Angeles requires a quick layover in Dallas, by far one of my least favorite airports. Mostly, I find that the whole “Everything’s bigger in Texas” thing also applies to the people sitting next to you on your flight. As I get to my seat, I’m elated to see I will not have to rub shoulders with my neighbor, but little did I know that my flight would be less than comfortable.

Just as the final passengers are trickling onto the plane, I notice an odd sound coming from the row in front of me—the sound of four distinct breathing patterns. I freeze. The plane is full, there’s nowhere to hide. I close my eyes and say a prayer for peace on Earth and peace within the heart of the baby placed on her Mother’s lap. My prayers go unanswered.

Within minutes, before we’ve even pulled away from the gate, the stale air of the cabin fills with a piercing screech that would shame

even the shrillest of banshees. It’s a sign of the times that the bouncing bundle lacking joy wants to play with an iPad. But wait—there’s another child flying with them, a girl between the ages of three and five. Like a broken record accompanying the baby’s squeals, the older sister begins repeating ad nauseam, “Mommy, you’re closing your eyes.” As if that was news to her mother. At that volume and with that much repetition, it’s news to no one on the plane.

And then, something happens that I could never have predicted, and yet should have expected. The baby’s shrieks have excited another baby a few rows back. They embark on what can only be described as an all out scream off. For each round, the blessed babes elevate their screeches just one pitch higher and louder than the other.

If I’ve ever been thankful for being childless, now is the moment.

I admit I was already pretty peeved this morning. I woke up at 5am after only a couple hours of restless sleep, hindered by a long-standing fear of oversleeping and missing a flight. My exhaustion was tested when the cashier at Dunkin Donuts poured me a coffee with cream even though I explicitly ordered a black coffee. I was too far down the terminal to turn back by the time I’d taken my first sip and realized her mistake. My coffee-addicted, lactose-intolerant body has not been handling the surprise well.

As the babies test their lung capacity (and their respective mothers’ will power), the captain announces that we’d be a bit delayed because the ground crew needs to defrost the plane. Something tells me this won’t be a problem when I’m leaving LA to come back.

Just as the diva infants begin to bring their war of wails to an end, a third baby chimes in. Rather than join his peers in eardrum shattering cries, our latest entrant opts for an onslaught of coos. It’s like baby acapella of the worst possible sort. I try to find a melody in the trio’s vocal eruptions. Alas, no baby Mozart’s in this group. To my dismay, it’s simply a continuous mix of dissonant tones. Maybe it’s a post-melody, post-harmony arrangement—seems perfectly plausible.

I remember one of the first flights I look as a child. At least I think I do, though I shouldn’t be held the accuracy of my recollection. My brother and I flew with my parents to Hawaii. We were on one of those big planes with the long center rows. Our parents seated us on the inside of the row—even then I felt suffocated. The flight felt endless, but we entertained ourselves with our shiny new Power Ranger toys. I can only imagine that there was some caffeine-deprived passenger wishing my own mother had decided against taking us along.


Baby 1’s name is Dar. I pick up this information midway through the flight when her older sister rats her out for spilling popcorn. Her mother, like a pro, continues to chat to her neighbor as though oblivious to the clear and utter chaos around her. Older Sister alerts her mother that Dar is now eating popcorn off the floor. Mother continues to chat with her neighbor (how exactly the baby managed to reach the popcorn on the floor is beyond me).

The floor-popcorn distracts Dar enough to halt the screaming. A moment of silence, but I know this glorious break won’t last long. It’s just an intermission in a show I never asked to attend. I close my eyes, welcoming the possibility for rest. Just as I’m about to drift off, Baby 2 begins to sob, surely missing his or her new companions. I’ve never been so happy to hear that the plane has begun its descent into the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport.

Almost home!


A Home Away From Home

There is something about this city, I remember feeling it from the moment I stepped off the plane in Jan 2010. It feels like home, it stirs me but never unsettles me. The air is filled with a static charge and the smell of power. The drive from the airport to GW passed familiar places filled with memories that had already faded over the last year and a half. The Washington Monument, stood there over the city, illuminated in the night sky like a lighthouse calling its ship home.

Enough with the soulful spout of poetry.

Room Tour!

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This is my room. Yes, much larger than I thought it would be too. I have a single room with a private bathroom. I also have a balcony! I went out there and took these pictures of the amazing view. Directly across is the Watergate building, to the right is the Potomac River and bridge. Just after snapping these pictures and bragging to my friends about how I’m going to study on the balcony and discussing with them whether or not a beer pong table would fit out there I saw a rather small sticker at the bottom of my window.

Open Your Balcony…find a New Home
Any attempt to open this balcony will result in a cancellation of your residence hall license agreement.
Don’t do it, we’d like you to stay with us.

Are my skills of perception lacking that much? Or maybe just a selective perception… They really should have made it a big sticker and put it by the door handle. I guess that explains why the door was so hard to open/close.

My building is called the Hall on Virginia Avenue. It is located, rather obviously, on Virginia Avenue in the Northwest Quadrant of Washington DC. The building used to be a Howard Johnson hotel, notably the one used by the lookouts during the Watergate Scandal. If you don’t know what that is (Or you know you’ve heard of it but the details are feeling a little fuzzy) click on the words Watergate Scandal, I linked it to the Wikipedia page.

My address is as follows, feel free to send me lovely things:

Liane Weissenberger
GW University- Hall on Virginia Ave Rm #612
2601 Virginia Ave NW
Washington, D.C. 20052

A toast, “To Richard Nixon, a just another crocodile in the swamp”
(DC was built on a swamp)

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
~Maya Angelou