COOL air blows over my face. I close my eyes and relax, allowing the gentle
stream of air to carry away the tensions of the morning. The professor’s pocket
knife triggered the sensors at the security gate, but he sent me on ahead,
saying he’d catch me up once he’d been searched. And now I’m sitting here, an
empty seat beside me, almost hoping he doesn’t make it. Travelling with the
professor is never easy.
A commotion at the front of the plane tells me he’s on board. He waves to me
and then elbows his way past a long line of passengers standing in the aisle,
busily thrusting coats and sweaters into luggage lockers. He sits down with a
thump. “Togs-off travel,” he says cryptically. “Aviation without
insulation—it’s one of humankind’s greatest achievements.”
I’m studying the glossy plan in front of me to see where the emergency exits
are. But the professor has other ideas. “Just think,” he says, “we sit here,
half undressed, while this enormous air conditioner whisks us through an
environment as cold as Siberia and as airless as Everest. Wonderful isn’t it?” I
mutter something positive, but all I can think about is standing on top of
Everest without any clothes on. I pull on a jumper.
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At last we’re off. For a few quiet moments I relish that wonderful feeling of
being pushed back into my seat, and then we’re climbing at what seems like a
very steep angle. We bank sharply and turn, and one or two passengers moan
softly. “Don’t worry,” sings the professor, “it’s just a temporary difference of
opinion between your balance receptors and your visual system.” I’m not
worrying; I have the window seat and I’m having a great time—so far.
My ears pop, but my attention is distracted by the professor shifting
uneasily in his seat. I ask him what’s up. “The cruel legacy of Robert Boyle,”
he says. “P is inversely proportional to V.” I look mystified,
so he begins to explain. “The pressure’s falling in here,” he says, waving his
arm, “so all the gas in my intestines is expanding. I knew I shouldn’t have had
those Brussels sprouts.” For once I’m glad my nose is blocked. I turn away,
mentioning the expanding air in my inflamed sinuses.
“Mmm yes, poor you,” he says briskly. “Well look on the bright side. Just
think how much worse it would be for both of us if the cabin weren’t
pressurised.” He decides to calculate just how much worse, and announces that if
the cabin was unpressurised his intestinal gases would have expanded fourfold.
“Mind you, without an oxygen mask, I probably wouldn’t be conscious for long
enough to worry about it,” he says.
I gaze out of the window at the clouds drifting below. I want to shift my
feet, but find the professor’s briefcase and laptop are taking up all the
available space. “So you see,” he drones, “the air pressure inside the plane is
about four-fifths of normal atmospheric pressure—not ideal, but it’s safe,
and over three times the pressure outside. It’s as if we were at 2000 metres
when we’re actually at something like 10 000. So we don’t get decompression
sickness—you know, the bends and all that.”
To hear him talk, you’d think he was teaching a biology class, not sitting in
tourist class. “But the lower air pressure does mean that there’s a bit less
oxygen in the blood than usual, though not much less—thanks to the
wonderful properties of haemoglobin. You’re not likely to feel anything unless
your effective altitude is 3000 metres or more.
“Of course, if the pressure drops much lower than that you’ll start breathing
faster and feeling a little woozy. The brain is very sensitive to oxygen
shortage, you know.” This sounds alarming, and clearly I show it. “Ah no, you’ll
be OK as long as the cabin stays pressurised,” he reassures me. “After all,
you’re not a smoker and you haven’t got lung problems, or circulatory
disease—conditions that interfere with your oxygen supply.”
Someone in the next row turns around suspiciously. “Mind you, people claim
they get drunk quicker in aeroplanes,” the professor continues. “I suppose if
you’re already a bit on the squiffy side before you start quaffing…” His voice
trails off as the steward appears. He orders his customary gin and tonic, and a
mineral water for me. “The other thing is that people on aeroplanes drink at
funny times of day, don’t they? Cheers.”
Cogs crunch
I look around and see that lunch is slowly making its way down the aisle. As
it happens, I have already eaten lunch, and I can almost hear the crunching of
cogs inside my circadian clock. I grimace at the thought of jet lag, then sneak
a glance at the professor, expecting him to launch into a homily on the
importance of hygiene in airline catering. Mercifully, he’s thought of something
else. “Just think,” he says, his mouth full of cold roast beef, “of the amount
of plastic packaging that goes into making airline meals for a billion
passengers every year.” But my mind is fixed on BSE and salmonella, not plastic
trays and Cellophane. At least we’re travelling tourist class—didn’t I
read somewhere that food poisoning is more likely in first class?
The professor goes off to the toilets again, while I shuffle my feet, aware
that my shoes are getting tighter. My ankles must be swelling up. I’m still
wriggling my toes when he gets back. “Oedema!” he cries triumphantly. “You
should have been moving your feet to keep the circulation going.” I try to
protest, but he sweeps me aside like a jumbo jet thundering down a runway. “It’s
very simple,” he says. “Blood pools in your feet, fluid seeps out of your
capillaries and hey presto you’re swelling up like a balloon.”
A cup of coffee and a brandy now nestle side-by-side on the professor’s
table, but something tells me he’s about to launch a new cause for anxiety in my
direction. “Of course, that’s not your only problem,” he says. “You encounter
more cosmic radiation when you fly—it’s worse the higher up you go.
Obviously it’s more serious for aircrew and regular passengers than it is for
occasional aviators like us. Even if you spend 100 hours in the air a year, you
still won’t get nearly as high a dose of radiation as someone living in Cornwall
or anywhere with naturally high radon levels.” I see an opening and suggest that
professors always seem to be travelling, but that doesn’t stop the flow.
“I’m more worried about catching diseases from the other passengers,” he
booms. I see the person in front looking around again, and feel suddenly
embarrassed. “I’m talking about infections that spread via droplets—flu,
TB, that kind of thing. I gather the authorities take this very seriously.”
Someone coughs a few rows away and I shudder, but the professor motors blithely
on. “I believe it has actually happened with TB. It’s not that surprising when
you think how close we are to one another in here.”
Strangely hot
He pauses dramatically. “Mind you, the air conditioning helps protect you.
All that pressurised air starts off in the engines, so it’s pretty
hygienic—although some does get recirculated, I believe. Anyway, the air
changes in here every three or four minutes, you see—much quicker than it
does in other places.”
But the reassurance comes too late, as it always does. That’s the trouble
with travelling with the professor: for him, knowledge is power, but for me it’s
just something new to worry about. I always end up feeling anxious. Right now my
heart is thumping and I am strangely hot.
I knock back some fruit juice. “Very wise,” he says, “stick to the
nonalcoholic stuff.” I point out that I’m driving when we arrive. “Well, it’s
not a good idea to drink alcohol and coffee anyway,” he says, “they’re both
diuretics. And the last thing you want to do is get dehydrated. All this moving
air inside the cabin isn’t exactly humid, and so you’re bound to get a dry mouth
and eyeballs.” The person in front turns round again and I think I hear an
exasperated sigh.
We start to descend. Suddenly, everything sounds muffled. “Pressure’s rising
again,” bellows the professor. I suck on a mint, but I’m still having trouble
with my ears. A baby starts crying a few rows back. “The pressure inside your
ears is now lower than outside—so you’ve got to open your Eustachian
tubes,” he says. “The trouble is, their anatomy means the tubes don’t pop open
so easily during descent. Try pinching your nostrils and swallowing.” After a
few attempts my ears clear and I am surprised once more by the loudness of the
professor’s voice.
He is still holding forth on the anatomy of the ear when we touch down.
Suddenly a large well-dressed man leaps out of the seat in front and turns on
the professor with wild eyes. “I can’t take any more,” he says, his voice
trembling with anger. “You and your blasted in-flight lectures. Can’t you just
shut up for five minutes?”
Sensing that violence might be imminent, I stand up, ready to intervene. But
the man draws back, startled by the bewildered expression on the professor’s
shining, schoolboyish face. He sighs heavily and turns to me. “Why do you put up
with him?” he asks.
“I’m used to it,” I reply, “we’ve been married thirty years.”
“Madam, you have my sympathies.”
“What a strange man,” mutters the professor, as we enter the terminal. But he
soon recovers. “The Eustachian tube is utterly fascinating. Do you know anything
about Bartolomeo Eustachio? Of course anatomy was all the rage in 16th-century
Italy…” I stride on ahead, and I’ve got the passports.
