Final 737 Out with a Pop

"Whimper" was too cruel and "Bang" would be a gross overstatement. In the world of airlines, I am sure airplane retirements are general knowledge. In the rest of the world, they are merely two days' news with a possible front page eye-catcher. When, as a result of belonging to a frequent flyer community, I decided to take the flight, I honestly did not know what to expect along the gambit from pomp and circumstance through a rustling of leaves. What I was treated to was a melange of both.

Any future airline retiring an aircraft would take note of two things to make large amounts of cash and draw interest. One, advertise. That sounds easy enough, but this flight was not advertised well (if at all) outside of the employee circles. And, any attempt to book the entire flight had to be keyed in manually by some poor beleaguered travel agent. (Thank you AmEx Platinum service.) Two, flair. I am not talking about meeting a minimum number of buttons here. I am talking about the flashbulbs of the press, the hot cooked meals and the unequivocal service received.

Apparently, this is one aspect Washington, DC at Dulles has down pat. You walked up to the flight feeling like you were a star in a part of airline history. I felt like I had bought my overpriced, by my standards, tickets at a steal. I don't know how many airline executives and reporters were there or not; I literally lost count. There were more people that did not get on the plane than did. Remember those days before TSA? People were asking to take my picture and there was fruit and a cake (yes at 6am) as a breakfast appetizer. Hot breakfast and free champagne through all cabins once on-board made you forget that the 737 is old, cramped and the armrests don't move. At least you can still stick your extended toes under the bulkhead to share some air with the First Class cabin. As I settled into my seat and dug into my french toast, I was mentally relishing the remainder of the flight and convincing myself that a 12-hour turn around after flying cross-country for the sheer joy of this experience was not as ridiculous at it might seem to some at first.

The landing was superb into Chicago, and the first thing I saw coming out of the clouds was a billboard nearly level with my eye. Breath held, I was anxiously awaiting the kingly reception which must be coming. The reception was weak and I am being kind. With a three plus hour layover, our trusty Boeing crept into the gate like a lost puppy looking for attention, and I proceeded directly to the Red Carpet Club. There was absolutely nothing at the airport that showed a glimmer of the glitz in DC, and the only people who cared about those of us non-employees were employees belonging to the frequent flyer community that led me to embark upon this journey. In United's defense, I didn't scour every corner of the airport looking for some hidden nook of a statement, but neither was there any obvious sign of life within the immediate area. To be even more fair, I reflected on the fact that I had not come expecting to see a first rate presentation. However, to go so quickly from a gallant start to a full stop was a bit nerve wracking.

Leaving the O'Hare airport, not one moment too soon for my taste, there was a short recognition ceremony at the gate for the Captain who would take the flight the rest of the way to San Francisco. He was retiring with his aircraft, adding to the drama, yet making the lack of any pomp above that of an office farewell party even more agonizing. I was wondering why they would make a circumstance out of the last flight if they had no intention of honoring it. Alas, I convinced myself as I adjusted to my now full row of seats, there had to be a reason that the last (LAX to SFO) leg of the flight had to be booked separately. I was over ORD (Chicago) already and wishing I could skip Denver to see what awaited us in the land of the stars, both real and imagined.

The only nod to the enormous immensity of the day when departing Chicago was the pedestrian announcement at the beginning of the flight, to which was appended hastily the fact that all passengers were on the last United 737 flight and the Captain's last flight as well. Before my eyes could finish lighting up in anticipation of what might happen on this leg, they proudly announced that, being as it was lunch time, I would have to fork over my AmEx for peanuts...I chose to starve until Denver, suddenly glad that we weren't skipping it. The day was definitely going downhill. In Denver, we were parked at the last gate in the terminal, with the shortest layover of the day meaning I could not make it to the burrito joint half-way through the airport and back with any certainty of receiving my food and being able to get back on the plane before it took off. Cookies and warm welcoming smiles were a saving grace as my feet adjusted to the stationary carpet.

Five minutes in Denver and two warm cookies later, my stomach vetoed any further waiting for the Chicago Tribune reporter I had promised to chat with. Convincing me she was not deplaning, it led me to the nearest food which proved to be a poorly rewarmed Pizza Hut pepperoni calzone. At least I bought fresh bread sticks. Missing the reporter and a few possible minutes of fame in Chicago print, I re-boarded following a cake cutting and announcement made through the balloons marking the gate. While more along the simple lines I expected prior to traveling than the DC extravaganza, I found it a rather weak comparison for United's primary hub. They had been outdone. At 6 am. In DC. Though every noteworthy name in the FAA and United's executive offices was up at that hour, apparently they had decided the rest of the flight was too much effort. With all these ironies swimming through the fog in my head, the traces of a smile returned with my normal good humor: if you averaged everything out, things were right where I had expected.

I awoke somewhere not more than 30 minutes into the flight as they had just begun the first round of drink orders. Again, I resisted the urge to purchase alcohol, laughing at myself for reveling in the past (even if it was only a half-day prior) of free champagne and hot food. The lackluster flight landed tiredly in LA, to be jolted awake by a movie star's welcome. At least, I imagine gates cordoned off and press around chronicling their comings and goings; the "security" at the roped off sections of gate didn't even slow my return from a magazine purchase. Perhaps he had remembered my departure, or I like to think so. After two days of criss-crossing the continent, this was the fanfare I needed to make it that last leg and I let it wash over me in the same way I was entranced by DC. The standby list was 38 at the highest point I can recall, and I had a golden ticket to ride.

I have never heard so much talk on such a short flight. There was not a window seat holder without a camera, even if relegated to a first generation cell phone one, pressed to the plastic windows as we cruised the coastline. Yes, we were authorized to fly the coveted route directly up the California coast that airlines are normally forced to circumvent for traffic reasons these days. I can't say I expect to be haggling with a British co-conspirator again any time soon over which outcropping of rock was Point Conception and where exactly wine country began. By this point, all of us giddy children who were on the flight solely to be on the flight, or close enough, were hoping for a glimpse of the Golden Gate. There is a flight path over it which I have been on before through sheer dumb luck, but a landing in the middle of rush hour traffic (both land- and air-borne) in San Francisco and Oakland, even after rumor's of the Captain's request, produced the inevitable sigh. Not a chance. A fire brigade of water (honoring both the retirements of plane and Captain) beating down on both sides led us to the gate of startled onlookers. Masses of people, cake and a mix of ecstatic and melancholic air were there to welcome us to the end of our journey.

"Do you know what's going on over there?" were the first words to greet me as I made some room back from the crowd. I breathed in the glory of knowledge and leveled my best nonchalant smile while stating the fact that it was the highly-acclaimed last 737 flight ever for United Airlines. Either it worked like a charm or they thought I was mad, as I received that sidelong glance on my departure that says, "Who are you to be involved in something like that?" My one second of fame, and the revelation of having been a part of such an amazing history and such a sad end to an era of American-built planes was complete.