Before I begin I must confess I am not a physical risk taker. I never have been. I have also been very lucky in the health department so I can count the number of medically traumatic events in my life on one hand. And my flight to America is definitely counted in that five. I also must tell you this post contains some pretty graphic details regarding my bowels. I recently read an article posted on FB saying that women are perceived to be less funny than men and part of that is because we are taught to not put ourselves out there. Well I can guarantee you this is not a "sit there and be pretty post". I am putting myself out there and hoping you have a bit of a laugh.
The flight started out just fine. Said goodbye to the family, checked-in, and sat down for a beer and a sandwich before the flight. I had a window seat next to a grandmother, a daughter and a newborn baby. Between the three of them they had about 7 carry on bags, all small and all shoved under the seats and on the floor in front of us. Knowing I am a lifetime member of the TWBC (teeny weeny bladder club), I began planning my escape route early. But honestly nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. It began with some passing of gas, then some passing of smelly gas, followed by some worse smelly gas. I looked at the peacefully sleeping baby and the worn out mother and I decided if I were her perhaps I would be willing to put up with some toots if it meant she didn't have to disrupt her baby by standing up to let me out. I watched a movie- more gas. I read my book- more gas. I slept a bit-more gas. Finally it was time, I sat up and waited for my moment. It happened. The baby started crying and roused a bit.
"Excuse me. I need to get out."
"You can't. You will wake the baby."
"Sorry? I HAVE to get out. I need to use the toilet."
"You can climb over. If I stand up the baby will wake." (baby had truthfully fallen back asleep)
"If I climb over you I might kick the baby and that will definitely wake him up."
I won and I made it to the bathroom just in time. With my bowels completely empty I returned to my seat regretting my choice to eat that sandwich with uncooked vegetables. What was I thinking eating lettuce? They probably picked up the head of lettuce that had traveled on the bed of a truck, then stored on the kitchen floor and just tore a piece off to make the sandwich look nice. No one else eats the lettuce. Why did I? Ugh, bad choice.
I remember the days when a lay over in Frankfurt meant getting off the plane, with all the other international travelers, into an non-AC hexagonal shaped concourse with one bathroom, not enough chairs and an open coffee bar in the middle that allowed smoking. Man, that was awful. You walked back on the plane after enduring your lay over kinda like that person who hasn't had a V8, your vision all wonky and the feeling that your body was at a 45 degree angle. Thankfully, Frankfurt has had a major update. There is a major walk involved, down twisty and turny corridors but at the end is a multi-stall AC bathroom with running water that is safe to brush your teeth with. As you walk further, you pass the smokers in their glass box. Why do they make the box glass? I choose to believe it is so I can say to my children, "Look at those yucky smokers in there!" Even though I was kid-free I still found myself making a yucky face at the smokers as if my disapproval was going to suddenly make a light bulb pop and they were going to out down their cigarette and never pick one up again. Further down there are carts with lovely smelling coffee and gorgeous looking pretzels, but considering my sensitive stomach I decided to avoid both. Now here is still one curious thing about the airport. They have plenty of bathroom signs but when you enter the bathroom you realize it is one door to a sink and then another door to one toilet. And you can't lock the door into the airport hallway. Stay with me on this description, please. So that means, if you are like me-in need of some quality toilet sitting time you must do so with a one or two women waiting by the sink and a steady stream of ladies opening the door asking, "Is the toilet taken?" I wasn't ill enough to have left all my embarrassment behind, so I kept slinking from toilet to toilet like a stray cat trying to go unnoticed. I finally made it to my gate so I pulled out my travel pillow and crashed on the bench.
I awoke with my body shaking from chills and found a white man across from staring me down. I tried to pull my dupatta tighter around my shoulders and stood up to get in the sunshine. When my strength wore out, I sat down shaking again. The man looked at me, leaned over and asked, "Are you sick?" Now my brain started racing. If I am sick they will not let me on the plane. They will quarantine me in Germany. "No, I am just tired," I offered with a big smile. He looked satisfied and I went back to lying down working to hold my teeth from chattering. I again got asked on the bus out to the plane and I repeated my "I'm tired" line. But I barely made it out of the bus without fainting and then I discovered I had to climb the steps to the plane with my suitcase in hand. I gave up and stepped aside, hoping a surge of strength would come. It doesn't but the man returns. Without saying anything he picks up my suitcase, carries it to the top of the steps and puts it down. (When I tell my mom this story later she tells me "That was Jesus!")I somehow found my seat, shoved my suitcase up top and made it to the toilet again just in time. The rest of my flight I spend laid out on a row I was so lucky to find. I tried to wake several times, lifting my heavy head. Every time I did, the Indian lady across the aisle from me was staring me down. Perhaps she thought I was dying or perhaps I was passing gas in my sleep, but by this time I was too ill to care. I was also too ill to care when I occupied the bathroom for 20 minutes and was so hot that I stripped all my clothes off and doused myself (and the bathroom) in water. I was too ill to give the 5 people waiting in line even so much as a look, much less a sorry.
The rest of the flight went about the same-toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out. The flight attendant tried to get me to sit up for the landing but after the 2nd time asking and seeing her expression turn to absolute disgust/pity after looking me over I assume she thought even a fall from the seat couldn't possibly do anymore damage to my physical state. I dragged myself through customs, again hoping they wouldn't quarantine me or spend 20 minutes asking me about various forms of mango I might have been smuggling in. This time I had none. I managed to find a Washington Flyer, give my address, pass out, wake up to pay, unlock and disarm my inlaws' house (they were back at my place in Mysore), drop my bags, grab some fizzy water and hit the bed. I spent the next 48 hours trying to recover and saying aloud to no one except myself "I can't believe I made."
The flight started out just fine. Said goodbye to the family, checked-in, and sat down for a beer and a sandwich before the flight. I had a window seat next to a grandmother, a daughter and a newborn baby. Between the three of them they had about 7 carry on bags, all small and all shoved under the seats and on the floor in front of us. Knowing I am a lifetime member of the TWBC (teeny weeny bladder club), I began planning my escape route early. But honestly nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. It began with some passing of gas, then some passing of smelly gas, followed by some worse smelly gas. I looked at the peacefully sleeping baby and the worn out mother and I decided if I were her perhaps I would be willing to put up with some toots if it meant she didn't have to disrupt her baby by standing up to let me out. I watched a movie- more gas. I read my book- more gas. I slept a bit-more gas. Finally it was time, I sat up and waited for my moment. It happened. The baby started crying and roused a bit.
"Excuse me. I need to get out."
"You can't. You will wake the baby."
"Sorry? I HAVE to get out. I need to use the toilet."
"You can climb over. If I stand up the baby will wake." (baby had truthfully fallen back asleep)
"If I climb over you I might kick the baby and that will definitely wake him up."
I won and I made it to the bathroom just in time. With my bowels completely empty I returned to my seat regretting my choice to eat that sandwich with uncooked vegetables. What was I thinking eating lettuce? They probably picked up the head of lettuce that had traveled on the bed of a truck, then stored on the kitchen floor and just tore a piece off to make the sandwich look nice. No one else eats the lettuce. Why did I? Ugh, bad choice.
I remember the days when a lay over in Frankfurt meant getting off the plane, with all the other international travelers, into an non-AC hexagonal shaped concourse with one bathroom, not enough chairs and an open coffee bar in the middle that allowed smoking. Man, that was awful. You walked back on the plane after enduring your lay over kinda like that person who hasn't had a V8, your vision all wonky and the feeling that your body was at a 45 degree angle. Thankfully, Frankfurt has had a major update. There is a major walk involved, down twisty and turny corridors but at the end is a multi-stall AC bathroom with running water that is safe to brush your teeth with. As you walk further, you pass the smokers in their glass box. Why do they make the box glass? I choose to believe it is so I can say to my children, "Look at those yucky smokers in there!" Even though I was kid-free I still found myself making a yucky face at the smokers as if my disapproval was going to suddenly make a light bulb pop and they were going to out down their cigarette and never pick one up again. Further down there are carts with lovely smelling coffee and gorgeous looking pretzels, but considering my sensitive stomach I decided to avoid both. Now here is still one curious thing about the airport. They have plenty of bathroom signs but when you enter the bathroom you realize it is one door to a sink and then another door to one toilet. And you can't lock the door into the airport hallway. Stay with me on this description, please. So that means, if you are like me-in need of some quality toilet sitting time you must do so with a one or two women waiting by the sink and a steady stream of ladies opening the door asking, "Is the toilet taken?" I wasn't ill enough to have left all my embarrassment behind, so I kept slinking from toilet to toilet like a stray cat trying to go unnoticed. I finally made it to my gate so I pulled out my travel pillow and crashed on the bench.
I awoke with my body shaking from chills and found a white man across from staring me down. I tried to pull my dupatta tighter around my shoulders and stood up to get in the sunshine. When my strength wore out, I sat down shaking again. The man looked at me, leaned over and asked, "Are you sick?" Now my brain started racing. If I am sick they will not let me on the plane. They will quarantine me in Germany. "No, I am just tired," I offered with a big smile. He looked satisfied and I went back to lying down working to hold my teeth from chattering. I again got asked on the bus out to the plane and I repeated my "I'm tired" line. But I barely made it out of the bus without fainting and then I discovered I had to climb the steps to the plane with my suitcase in hand. I gave up and stepped aside, hoping a surge of strength would come. It doesn't but the man returns. Without saying anything he picks up my suitcase, carries it to the top of the steps and puts it down. (When I tell my mom this story later she tells me "That was Jesus!")I somehow found my seat, shoved my suitcase up top and made it to the toilet again just in time. The rest of my flight I spend laid out on a row I was so lucky to find. I tried to wake several times, lifting my heavy head. Every time I did, the Indian lady across the aisle from me was staring me down. Perhaps she thought I was dying or perhaps I was passing gas in my sleep, but by this time I was too ill to care. I was also too ill to care when I occupied the bathroom for 20 minutes and was so hot that I stripped all my clothes off and doused myself (and the bathroom) in water. I was too ill to give the 5 people waiting in line even so much as a look, much less a sorry.
The rest of the flight went about the same-toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out. The flight attendant tried to get me to sit up for the landing but after the 2nd time asking and seeing her expression turn to absolute disgust/pity after looking me over I assume she thought even a fall from the seat couldn't possibly do anymore damage to my physical state. I dragged myself through customs, again hoping they wouldn't quarantine me or spend 20 minutes asking me about various forms of mango I might have been smuggling in. This time I had none. I managed to find a Washington Flyer, give my address, pass out, wake up to pay, unlock and disarm my inlaws' house (they were back at my place in Mysore), drop my bags, grab some fizzy water and hit the bed. I spent the next 48 hours trying to recover and saying aloud to no one except myself "I can't believe I made."
you left out the sounds!!1
ReplyDeleteC
:-) gotta keep some things private! But thanks for bringing it up.
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