Travel is Not a Luxury — It’s My Identity

My father at work late night at Toronto Airport in the 1980s

The first time I ever boarded an airplane, I was 9 months old and it was 1975. My father had just been hired at Air Canada working as a ticketing agent, and this was perhaps the first time my parents used their free flight benefits. The job itself would last 35 years until my dad’s retirement. I remember accompanying him to work at the central reservations center, and dealing with a lot of “Are you Alex Zichermann’s son?” from well-meaning colleagues when flying out of YYZ.

My childhood was always faintly tinged by the smell of jet fuel. Even now (then) when I arrive at LAX and the door of my uber opens, the smell takes me right back. Right back to being a young kid, boarding a 727 through the rear door at La Guardia (“Cool! We went inside the butt!”). Or taking an ancient Pan Am 707 from Tel-Aviv to Athens, whereupon we were stuck for 24 hours because the continuing flight was full. Ah, standby travel! It was planes that took us to the far corners of the world for vacation, and to visit my maternal grandparents annually in Budapest.

Despite being poor, my family was mobile. My dad loved to travel for travels’ sake and my mom put up with planes so she could see family. Where other relatives would only see each other once every 5 years, there we were, effortlessly on the other side of the planet. It is planes that connected my family and let me…