Getting to Hannibal

Hannibal, Missouri, the childhood home of Mark Twain, is a small town with a population of roughly 17,000. It borders Illinois, and sits along the Mississippi River where people walk their dogs in the park, take strolls past the Old Mighty, and act cordial with the tourists. A railroad winds through it, sandwiched between the river and the city, the train blowing its horn as it chugs by at different times of the day.

This is where I chose to go “visit Mark Twain”. To touch and see the things that inspired him, and brought the story of Tom Sawyer alive.

The first challenge was getting there. Major flights flew into St. Louis. From there I could either rent a car and drive the 90 minutes to Hannibal or I could take a small plane (like a Cessna) to Quincy, Illinois where a shuttle service would drive me the twenty miles to my hotel, just across the street from Downtown. I planned to be in Hannibal only for one full day. Economically, renting a car would be more expensive. Emotionally, getting there in a Cessna plane would be too taxing.

You see, I have a fear of flying. I can get through it, clutching tightly to the armrest beside me during takeoff and landing (or the hand of whichever person sits beside me—strangers sometimes fall victim to this unfortunate habit of mine, and I’d like to take this opportunity to both apologize to and thank everyone whose arm has been on the receiving end of my nails). I don’t go into panic mode with the deep breathing and sweating and palpitations. I can actually control this fear well. But it’s one thing to control my fear of flying when I know I’ll be in a big plane—the ones that look like giants with steal wings and offer thirty rows with a variety of strategically marked exit routes. It’s another thing to fly in a toy plane, where there aren’t even thirty seats let alone rows.

So my choices were simple. I could drive to Hannibal—on the ground where God had perfected the gift of gravity—or I could fly in a toy plane—in the air where, for all I knew, a toddler would be powering the Cessna with a remote control.

So I made the logical choice.

I picked the Cessna.

Okay, so it’s not seemingly rational, you know, because of my fear of flying and all, but if you think about it, it’s the most reasonable choice for the blog. OBVIOUSLY I had to pick the thing I dread. Face my fears, right? Cessna it was.

Flying to St. Louis, the plane had sixteen rows. And that was small, per my standards anyway. I hoped the Cessna would be about the same size, maybe a few rows less—like, let’s say, twelve rows of seats, two seats on either side. That would give us 48 passengers. It wouldn’t be the largest plane I had flown in, but it would be enough. I could handle twelve rows with 48 passengers. No problem. (Yes, I was completely ignorant of what a Cessna really was. Blissfully ignorant and ignorantly hopeful).

When I arrived in St. Louis, I had to leave the secured area and return to the front check in. That’s weird, I thought. Usually for connecting flights, we’re automatically checked into the next one. It didn’t bother me, only annoyed me that I’d have to go through security again. Shoes off. Coat off. Belt off. And wait behind travelers who still didn’t know they had to remove all of those particles of clothing. Yes, people. Shoes off when you go through the metal detector. For like five years now.

I greeted the lady behind the desk, showed her my confirmation number and driver’s license.

“How much do you weigh?” she asked.

Gulp. Why did that matter? How small was this plane that my weight woulddetermine if I got on?

I smiled, replied and then asked, “Um, how many passengers does this plane seat?”

“Ten,” she said.

“Oh, ten” I said. She couldn’t mean the number of people. “As in rows?”

“As in passengers,” she said, lifting her eyebrow. “Two pilots. Eight travelers.”

WHAT?!?! There weren’t even 10 travelers on board? The pilots counted as passengers?!?!

She weighed my backpack and purse, and then directed me to my gate.

“Go down the escalator and make a left to security. After security, go all the way down Hallway C until you reach the end. When you get there, make another left. Then veer to the right. At the end of that hallway, veer left. Then go down the stairs. Don’t take the escalator. Take the stairs.” She looked up at me. Must have seen the sweat and pale skin. Then she said, “There are signs if you get lost. Just follow them.”

I nodded. Only signs? I wondered. Aren’t there people to help me if I get lost? Veer this way and that, go down this set of stairs and another, careful not to take the escalator. Where the heck was this gate anyway? In a dungeon?

Well, not a dungeon. But kinda close.

It was a small room on the lower level (really the basement) that opened out to the tarmac. There were seats and rocking chairs scattered around, and a small desk in the center with a nice TSA lady standing behind it.

I settled in and waited. There were three flights leaving from the same gate within a five-minute span of one another. Mine was scheduled as the first to go.

As the time grew close for them to board us on the plane, the TSA agent informed us that my plane was delayed because of mechanical problems, which would be resolved in a “few minutes.”

Uh oh. Not good. I was already terrified. And now the plane had mechanical problems, which they planned to “fix”, in a few minutes, nonetheless? Shouldn’t they be taking their time? What was the rush, anyway?

After fifteen minutes, she told us that they had to get a new plane and the flight would be delayed for another thirty minutes. The other two trips left, bumping us from first to go to last.

The other passengers and I started to chat. Almost all of them had flown on a small plane in the past and thought it was fun. Just me and one other person had never done it. We were quickly reassured that everything would be fine and that we’d get to our destination in no time.

Once the new plane arrived, they started to load the luggage. We stood from the gate and watched through the door. The suitcases didn’t fit. In and out they pulled them, playing a game of tetris with our bags. The TSA agent hurried outside to help. Even the pilot got out to lend a hand, wiping his brow as he struggled to squeeze everything into the Cessna. After ten minutes, they made it work. The bags were in. The aircraft was mechanically intact. We were ready. We watched as the agent walked back from the tarmac.

“There’s another snafu,” she said. “The front tire is flat. As soon as they change the tire, you guys are clear to go.”

Seriously? Another problem?

I wondered if it was too late to rent the car. After all, the woman behind the check-in desk had told me to look for the signs if I got lost. Were these the signs? Mechanical issues, baggage that didn’t fit, a flat tire. Was this a fear I shouldn’t be facing?

Before I had a chance to investigate the possibility of an exit strategy, we were lined up and ready to board. I slowed down and let everyone else (all seven of them) climb up the three steps into the plane.

Then I took a deep breath, glanced around, and with wobbly legs, got inside. There was only one seat left, right beside the door, which I took. I snapped on my seatbelt and stretched my hands out for the armrest. Except there were no armrests. I had nothing to sink my nails into. Great. Just great.

The pilot turned around and looked at us. He smiled.

He’s pretty young, I thought. Is he even old enough to be flying a plane? To have passed airplane school? Wonderful. I had the Doogie Howser of pilots. Why couldn’t I get Captain Sully?

“It’s a pretty sunny day,” he said. “And a little windy, which don’t make for very comfortable flying conditions.”

I’m sorry, uh, what? Perhaps we shouldn’t be flying then, I thought.

“So, we’ll have a pretty bumpy ride,” he finished. The he grinned again and faced forward.

The toyplane jolted across the runway, paused for a giant airplane crossing its path (I should be on that, I thought), and then continued on its way for take off.

The pilot turned around once again. “Are you ready?”

Everyone cheered. I nodded, and then sunk my nails into my seat cushion (which, in retrospect was probably not a good choice as that was also my probable floating device in the event of a water landing).

As the plane gained speed and floated up into the sky, my throat became dry, my neck grew wet with sweat, I felt dizzy and my heart pounded. Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths. I closed my eyes as that seemed to ward away the dizziness.

“It’s so beautiful,” the lady beside me said. “Look.”

I opened one eye and glanced out the window. Yup. Gorgeous. Closed the eye again.

“Sorry it’s so hot in the plane,” the pilot yelled over the snarl of the engine. “It’ll get cooler once we’re higher up in the air.”

I fanned myself with a magazine and clutched the seat as the plane swerved up and down through the sky. A couple screams from the other passengers. No idea why I didn’t scream too. Certainly not because I was more courageous. I think my throat was still too dry.

Once we were high enough in the air, it started to cool down. I stopped fanning myself. Okay so Captain Doogie seemed to know what he was talking about. The veering lessened. I loosened my grip on the cushion. The dizziness had stopped. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. I could see the Mississippi wide and glistening, curving beneath us.

It really was a majestic site. Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me (it was in my bag which was locked down in the wing of the plane). Otherwise, I would have shot some pictures to share. But, it looked amazing to see an American treasure like the Mississippi from the sky.

The air grew hot and the plane swerved again once we started our descent. But I have to hand it to Captain Doogie, it was one of the best landings I’ve ever experienced. No bumps at all.

I felt so grateful to feel the earth beneath my feet once we got out of the plane. The ground is so underappreciated, I thought, and almost kissed it, but refrained amongst strangers.

I had faced a major fear, which made me proud. But I also realized that if given a choice, I would never fly in a plane that small again. Ever. Then again, maybe it’s one of those things that grow on you with time, and I should never say never.

But really, never again.

That was my adventure to Hannibal. Now for my adventure in Hannibal with Mark Twain.

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