Continental Flight 629

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Flight 629 from Denver to Newark. Our flight time today is approximately three hours and twelve minutes and we're heading towards a cruising altitude of 33,000 feet. In a few moments our in-flight entertainment will commence, as a baby a few rows behind you begins screaming persistently for the first half of the flight. We will be serving light refreshments this afternoon, after which another unseen baby will scream right up until landing in Newark. Enjoy the flight".

I'd be prepared to accept screaming babies on planes as an unfortunate fact of life if it weren't for a couple of strange circumstances surrounding the issue. Firstly, there are ALWAYS two screaming babies on a plane. Never one, never three, never four, always two. What's more, the timing of said screaming implies a sense of coordination and planning far beyond the capability of two infants. The first baby will scream for the entire first half of the flight until subdued, at which point the second baby immediately picks up the slack and brings it all the way home. There must be something more sinister at work here.

The other thing that troubles me is that I've never actually seen a baby on a plane. I've never sat next to, or across the aisle from one, nor have I ever seen one being carried down the aisle by a doting mother. Babies on planes seem to only exist aurally, usually three or four rows behind and obscured by the seats in between. But they're always there. The only conclusion I can draw is that the screaming baby noise is fabricated by airlines to make the experience of flying so unpleasant as to heighten the anticipation of arrival at one's destination. I guess this would be particularly welcome for people flying into Baghdad or Christchurch, for instance, but I'm flying into New York City and I'm already looking forward to it enough as it is.

The actual in-flight entertainment is, as usual, an abysmal sitcom. I don't have sound because no one gave me any headphones; nevertheless just from watching the picture I'm able to make that qualitative judgment. I have no idea what the name of the show is, but the protagonist appears to be an overweight father who has trouble relating to his kids, so that narrows it down to any one of about 75 American sitcoms. I turn my attention to the New York Times Wednesday crossword, but it's too hard to concentrate over the sound of the baby having its toenails removed without anaesthetic, so I just stare out the window at the interminable cornfields instead.

We arrived at Denver airport from Vail three-and-a-half hours before boarding, which at least gave us ample time to weigh up our fast food options for lunch. Every place looked as bad as the next, so we settled on the devil we knew. McDonald's is bad enough at the best of times, but at 11 in the morning it is enough to inspite revolt in one's innards. "At least you know that's the worst burger you'll eat on this trip", I say to Joey as he struggles through a double quarter pounder (which I assume would be a half pounder?). Naturally, on our way to board the plane we stumbled upon a previously unseen foodcourt that displayed an array of enticing sandwiches, burritos and calzones. The Big Mac was haunting me already.

Back on the plane, I'm about to eat my words. Literally. Turns out our lunchtime refreshment is - what else would it be in this country - a burger. Well, calling it a burger is perhaps being a little generous. It has come in a sealed plastic bag, purporting to be "char-broiled", but judging by the sogginess of the bun it seems more likely to have been char-boiled. It comes with the same tired, jaundiced lettuce that I not long ago encountered in my Big Mac, not to mention the same I-cannot-possibly-fathom-how-this-substance-could-be-naturally-occurring cheese. It tastes like... well, I can't even find the descriptive terms to do it justice. Suffice it to say it makes the Big Mac look like haute cusine. I eat it nevertheless, because it's a burger, and that's what I do.

We're now 135 miles east of Newark in what the pilot has just called a "holding pattern". What does Gavin Larsen have to do with air travel, I'm thinking, before realising that he means we're stuck in traffic. That doesn't often happen on approach to Dunedin. I start to wonder how Gavin Larsen managed to keep creeping into my subconscious before the second baby's screaming cuts me off as it climaxes into a riotous crecendo.

It now sounds as if the baby is being dealt to with a blunt hacksaw. Each scream is more desperate and more blood-curdling than the last. How on Earth do babies do it? At sporting events, I always seem to lose my voice from shouting abuse at opposition players before the game has even started. These little pricks can just go on for hours and hours and hours. Ominously, I'm beginning to see the human side of Chris Kahui.

Suddenly the plane descends through the clouds and there, for the first time in my life, are all the city's landmarks laid out before me. First the George Washington Bridge, then Central Park, then the iconic skyscrapers of midtown, the Chrysler Building, Citicorp Centre, the Empire State Building, Ground Zero and finally, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, all basking in the early evening sun. I've seen it through a movie screen a million times. This time, I'm seeing it through an aeroplane window.

Shortly thereafter, we're touching down in Newark. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York", says the air hostess. "As we will be taxiing for a few more minutes, please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened". 180 seatbelts go *click* more or less simultaneously. Then the baby stops screaming momentarily, only to roar back into life as if prodded into action by an unseen airline employee.

Old family friend Wayne is waiting for us at the airport to take us back to his house in suburban New Jersey. Wayne and his family have been kind enough to put up with us for a couple of weeks. The drive up I-95 takes us through miles of industrial wasteland. Unless I'm mistaken, it's the freeway that features in the opening sequence of The Sopranos, but for all I know every road in the city could look like this. I can't help but notice the car being overwhelmed by a foul, unnatural stench. Has Joey farted again?

"Smell those chemical processing vapours? Mmmm", says Wayne, as he is outrageously cut off by an SUV in the lane next to him, very nearly occasioning a 20-car pile up. "Welcome to New York, boys".