The last few days have not provided a pleasurable ride for Southwest Airlines, what with two emergency landings as one flight last Friday aborted after part of a fuselage tore away and a second landed prematurely Monday after a burning electric smell permeated the main cabin. Tack on more airborne troubles Monday with United’s Flight 497 that also had smoke problems and a scary emergency landing.
All three incidents, thankfully, ended with no loss of life. But they did evoke memories of similar escapades during my business flying career.
Usually, I fall asleep on a plane even before takeoff. That’s what happened when Gilda and I were returning aboard United Airlines from one of my magazine's conferences in San Francisco 18 years ago. We were sitting near the rear. In my dream I smelled something burning. It didn’t jive with the other action in the dream so I woke up about 20 minutes into the flight. Gilda also detected the odor. We alerted the stewardess who informed the pilot.
While they assured everyone there was no danger, the cabin started filling up with acrid smoke. The pilot decided to turn back to San Francisco, but since he had a full load of fuel for the transcontinental run, he first had to release gasoline over the Pacific.
As we approached the landing, the stewardesses told everyone to assume the crash position, that once we came to a full stop we were to calmly walk to the emergency exits and slide down the evacuation chutes. Bent over with arms crossed shielding our heads, Gilda and I awkwardly held hands, thankful we were together. Nobody panicked. Young and old alike slid down the chutes with only one elderly woman slightly injuring her ankle (I’ll admit now I didn’t fully follow orders—I didn’t remove my shoes). Once safely inside the terminal, though, a gold-chained, muscled guy fainted. So much for macho appearances.
For our adventure, United gave everyone a free round-trip ticket to any domestic destination (more on how we used those tickets in a future blog).
Last Friday’s rupture of part of the fuselage of Southwest Flight 812 was a harrowing experience for the passengers. Our brush with a potentially similar condition was not as terrifying, thanks, no doubt, to Dan’s keen eye.
We were flying American Airlines from Dallas to Tokyo 19 years ago, I to interview executives from Ito-Yokado for our joint-venture Japanese publishing company, Gilda, Dan and Ellie to enjoy the hospitality of our hosts.
About an hour after leaving Dallas, Dan thought he saw part of the skin of the left wing flapping away. He asked the man sitting next to him, a Navy air technician, to take a look. He confirmed Dan’s discovery. He called a stewardess who called the relief pilot who flies along on trans-Pacific flights.
Though he too advised we’d be safe proceeding, he cautioned that the prudent thing to do was turn back to Dallas and transfer to another plane. It meant an eight hour delay, making our total travel time from New York to Tokyo a whopping 28 hours instead of the normal 18.
All in all, an inconvenience but surely not as dramatic or as traumatic as that experienced on Southwest Airlines Flight 812.
Showing posts with label Tokyo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tokyo. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
All Aboard the Bullet Train
Perhaps no iconic aspect of Japanese life has been more shaken by last week’s earthquake and tsunami than the nation’s reliance on a timetable-pure railroad network of local subway service and intra-city bullet trains. As precise as a fine Swiss watch, rail service epitomized the country’s dedication to fine workmanship, reliability and modernity.
During our family visit to Japan in 1991, we traveled several times on the Tokyo subway, but not during rush hour so we avoided being pushed and scrunched by huge paddles into train cars like human sardines. The rides were efficiently comfortable, though at the time we had to count stops as there were no English subtitles identifying any of the stations.
More exciting was our venture on a bullet train between Tokyo and Kyoto, some 300 miles, just 2 hours 30 minutes in transit. By comparison, Amtrak’s high speed Acela train traverses the 225 mile Washington to New York run in 2 hours 48 minutes.
As we were traveling on a busy national holiday, we couldn’t secure first class tickets. Second class meant we wouldn’t have reserved seats. No problem. We couldn’t imagine it would pose a challenge to seasoned New York commuters. As you can suspect, we were dearly wrong.
Our mistake was anticipating the patient Japanese waiting on line would remain calm and orderly once a train pulled next to the platform. We were about 15 people from the front of the line. As soon as the doors at either end of the cars opened bedlam ensued. We were easily pushed aside in the wild dash for seats. We didn’t even make it into the car before the doors shut in our faces. As bullet trains left for Kyoto every 15 minutes, we weren’t too worried about having our timetable messed up. Until it happened a second, and then a third time. Clearly we needed to adopt a more Japanese mentality. Or maybe we just had to show the locals how New Yorkers respond to adversity. We regrouped and planned strategy for the next train.
This time we were stationed closer to the front of the line. Gilda and I locked arms to block the entry, allowing Dan and Ellie (13 and 10, respectively, at the time) to scoot in and secure seats four seats. It worked, to a point.
We found Dan and Ellie in a verbal tug of war over two bench seats with two teenagers acting as an advance party for their family. They didn’t speak any English. We didn’t speak any Japanese. But New York sign language clearly conveyed our message that we were there first to claim the prize. It didn’t hurt our chances that I was bigger than either of the teenagers.
We settled in and waited for the inevitable arrival of their family. To say the parents were disappointed and angry with their scouts would be an understatement. The boys obviously lost face with their parents who rode atop their suitcases in the aisle the whole way to Kyoto.
During our family visit to Japan in 1991, we traveled several times on the Tokyo subway, but not during rush hour so we avoided being pushed and scrunched by huge paddles into train cars like human sardines. The rides were efficiently comfortable, though at the time we had to count stops as there were no English subtitles identifying any of the stations.
More exciting was our venture on a bullet train between Tokyo and Kyoto, some 300 miles, just 2 hours 30 minutes in transit. By comparison, Amtrak’s high speed Acela train traverses the 225 mile Washington to New York run in 2 hours 48 minutes.
As we were traveling on a busy national holiday, we couldn’t secure first class tickets. Second class meant we wouldn’t have reserved seats. No problem. We couldn’t imagine it would pose a challenge to seasoned New York commuters. As you can suspect, we were dearly wrong.
Our mistake was anticipating the patient Japanese waiting on line would remain calm and orderly once a train pulled next to the platform. We were about 15 people from the front of the line. As soon as the doors at either end of the cars opened bedlam ensued. We were easily pushed aside in the wild dash for seats. We didn’t even make it into the car before the doors shut in our faces. As bullet trains left for Kyoto every 15 minutes, we weren’t too worried about having our timetable messed up. Until it happened a second, and then a third time. Clearly we needed to adopt a more Japanese mentality. Or maybe we just had to show the locals how New Yorkers respond to adversity. We regrouped and planned strategy for the next train.
This time we were stationed closer to the front of the line. Gilda and I locked arms to block the entry, allowing Dan and Ellie (13 and 10, respectively, at the time) to scoot in and secure seats four seats. It worked, to a point.
We found Dan and Ellie in a verbal tug of war over two bench seats with two teenagers acting as an advance party for their family. They didn’t speak any English. We didn’t speak any Japanese. But New York sign language clearly conveyed our message that we were there first to claim the prize. It didn’t hurt our chances that I was bigger than either of the teenagers.
We settled in and waited for the inevitable arrival of their family. To say the parents were disappointed and angry with their scouts would be an understatement. The boys obviously lost face with their parents who rode atop their suitcases in the aisle the whole way to Kyoto.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Japan Through a Long Lens
The unfolding catastrophe in Japan has me thinking about our family trip there in October 1991 when Dan was 13 and Ellie 10. We turned one of my business trips into a lifelong memory, made all the more vibrant by the tragedy of recent days.
While I interviewed executives of Ito-Yokado, one of the country’s largest diversified retailers whose holdings include 7-Eleven, Gilda and the kids toured Tokyo, Mount Fuji, Disney World Japan, and other areas around Tokyo.
It’s hard to believe 20 years have passed. No doubt much has changed in Japan, but here are some reflections that are still relevant, or at least, interesting from a historical perspective:
Twenty years ago, if not still today, the sight of Western children captivated Japanese, especially Japanese children. They’d often approach dirty-blonde-haired Ellie to touch her head and giggle.
Tokyo addresses are randomly numbered—4 could be next to 160 next to 89. I can’t remember why, just that it was confusing. Only by associating a location with a distinctive landmark could you find a destination. You couldn’t rely on signs, unless you read Japanese. Shortly after our visit, English was added to some subway stop signs. Nor could you rely on taxi drivers. If you handed one a piece of paper with your destination written in Japanese, there was a strong possibility you’d still be stalemated because the driver was illiterate.
Crossing a street on foot was a challenge. With red lights stopping traffic in all directions, pedestrians crossed in traditional fashion and diagonally as well. It doesn’t sound imposing until you realize that at major intersections thousands of pedestrians crossed at the same time. Only a firm grasp on Ellie’s hand prevented her from being swept away by the surge.
Back then, only the finest restaurants or those in hotels had English menus. In most places you more or less knew what you were ordering by pointing to either a picture or a plastic representation of a prepared meal. A favorite bagged snack food, comparable to our potato chips, was dried squid. Married women and children ate a mostly fish and rice diet at home, while businessmen feasted on Western-style food for lunch and dinner, usually purchased on expense accounts equal to their salaries.
Japanese women craved more fulfillment and independence. They deferred marriage for careers and, frankly, because the men were immature. The men had four passions: sumo wrestling, playing pachinko (a vertical pinball game), reading comic books and drinking. Delaying marriage contributed to the country’s negative birth rate.
Women’s status was so stunted that even if the highest executive at a meeting was female she was still expected to serve tea to all the men. Men did not defer to women, or children, when entering an elevator. They would push Gilda, Dan and Ellie aside to scramble in first.
Japanese are prodigious smokers. Yet you rarely saw butts on the street. Instead, they crushed their discarded cigarettes in vertical ashtrays hung every few yards along the sidewalk. Their fastidiousness extended as well to graffiti. Over two weeks’ time we saw just one graffiti display, inside a lighthouse stairwell outside Osaka.
Back in 1991 Japan was a full employment economy. That meant department stores hired women to stand in front of elevators to bow to customers when the doors opened. It also meant distribution of labor at the cash register. One person rung up your purchase, another wrapped it, a third took your payment and returned any change, and a fourth handed you your purchase and bowed in appreciation. Full employment also meant no one could be laid off. Our joint-venture publishing company, for example, could not dismiss an incompetent editor. We simply moved him to a non-editorial position, such as circulation manager.
During Japan’s supercharged economic era, continuing even to today, overworking was a danger, so much so that people literally used to die in their tracks, while walking. An article in a paper at the time of our visit explained how other pedestrians would pass a stricken victim and whisper, “ ah, karoshi.” The word means “exhaustion death.” According to the Associated Press, “In the fiscal year ending in March 2010, the Japanese government found about 100 karoshi deaths (caused by a heart attack or stroke). It also ruled that 63 suicides were caused by overwork.” Last month, AP reported, Mazda was ordered by a court to pay $770,000 in damages to the parents of an employee ruled to have committed suicide over depression from being overworked.
While I interviewed executives of Ito-Yokado, one of the country’s largest diversified retailers whose holdings include 7-Eleven, Gilda and the kids toured Tokyo, Mount Fuji, Disney World Japan, and other areas around Tokyo.
It’s hard to believe 20 years have passed. No doubt much has changed in Japan, but here are some reflections that are still relevant, or at least, interesting from a historical perspective:
Twenty years ago, if not still today, the sight of Western children captivated Japanese, especially Japanese children. They’d often approach dirty-blonde-haired Ellie to touch her head and giggle.
Tokyo addresses are randomly numbered—4 could be next to 160 next to 89. I can’t remember why, just that it was confusing. Only by associating a location with a distinctive landmark could you find a destination. You couldn’t rely on signs, unless you read Japanese. Shortly after our visit, English was added to some subway stop signs. Nor could you rely on taxi drivers. If you handed one a piece of paper with your destination written in Japanese, there was a strong possibility you’d still be stalemated because the driver was illiterate.
Crossing a street on foot was a challenge. With red lights stopping traffic in all directions, pedestrians crossed in traditional fashion and diagonally as well. It doesn’t sound imposing until you realize that at major intersections thousands of pedestrians crossed at the same time. Only a firm grasp on Ellie’s hand prevented her from being swept away by the surge.
Back then, only the finest restaurants or those in hotels had English menus. In most places you more or less knew what you were ordering by pointing to either a picture or a plastic representation of a prepared meal. A favorite bagged snack food, comparable to our potato chips, was dried squid. Married women and children ate a mostly fish and rice diet at home, while businessmen feasted on Western-style food for lunch and dinner, usually purchased on expense accounts equal to their salaries.
Japanese women craved more fulfillment and independence. They deferred marriage for careers and, frankly, because the men were immature. The men had four passions: sumo wrestling, playing pachinko (a vertical pinball game), reading comic books and drinking. Delaying marriage contributed to the country’s negative birth rate.
Women’s status was so stunted that even if the highest executive at a meeting was female she was still expected to serve tea to all the men. Men did not defer to women, or children, when entering an elevator. They would push Gilda, Dan and Ellie aside to scramble in first.
Japanese are prodigious smokers. Yet you rarely saw butts on the street. Instead, they crushed their discarded cigarettes in vertical ashtrays hung every few yards along the sidewalk. Their fastidiousness extended as well to graffiti. Over two weeks’ time we saw just one graffiti display, inside a lighthouse stairwell outside Osaka.
Back in 1991 Japan was a full employment economy. That meant department stores hired women to stand in front of elevators to bow to customers when the doors opened. It also meant distribution of labor at the cash register. One person rung up your purchase, another wrapped it, a third took your payment and returned any change, and a fourth handed you your purchase and bowed in appreciation. Full employment also meant no one could be laid off. Our joint-venture publishing company, for example, could not dismiss an incompetent editor. We simply moved him to a non-editorial position, such as circulation manager.
During Japan’s supercharged economic era, continuing even to today, overworking was a danger, so much so that people literally used to die in their tracks, while walking. An article in a paper at the time of our visit explained how other pedestrians would pass a stricken victim and whisper, “ ah, karoshi.” The word means “exhaustion death.” According to the Associated Press, “In the fiscal year ending in March 2010, the Japanese government found about 100 karoshi deaths (caused by a heart attack or stroke). It also ruled that 63 suicides were caused by overwork.” Last month, AP reported, Mazda was ordered by a court to pay $770,000 in damages to the parents of an employee ruled to have committed suicide over depression from being overworked.
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