Dearest readers,
This semester, I am studying abroad in Ireland. So glad to be here and everything, but the traveling was a true nightmare. Just getting from Idaho to New York is always bad enough every semester, and going from there across the ocean was no small feat for someone with a constitution as delicate as mine. As I was reflecting on some of my experiences traveling to and fro, across the country since starting at Vassar, I began to realize that I have a fundamental issue with air travel as a whole. I think that I’m simply not made for it, practically on a chemical level. I wanted to share with you all a few stories of my misadventures in the air and why I believe I should try to stop flying completely. Perhaps it will inspire some of you to embark on a humble road trip this year.
I take many issues with flying in general. A five-day road trip is my preferred method of getting to and from school, but alas, if I want to be home for Christmas, fly I must. First of all, I think that I have really bad luck. I say this because it seems like every time I go through airport security, the people in front of me barely even know where they are, much less what they should be doing; they might not even know what an airport is. In my opinion, you haven’t really experienced all that airports have to offer until you’re in a security line at 3:30 in the morning in a regional airport with outdated security equipment, listening to a middle-aged Mormon woman (accompanied by her gaggle of the six most annoying children in the world who don’t seem to know how to remove their shoes despite all being above the age of 10) tell a TSA agent that she has ALWAYS been allowed to fly with her massive bottle of self-tanner and she will be having a SERIOUS discussion with his boss if he confiscates it. There is no shortage of such tales from the Boise Airport. I’ve seen people refuse to take their shoes off, say that they have no devices in their bag and then be shocked when their bag gets pulled aside and their laptop is removed and refuse to be patted down.
Honestly, though, I understand the objection to being patted down. It’s a little humiliating. I’ve been patted down many, many times at airports. Why, you may ask? Well, I’ve often had the bad fortune of flying while menstruating, and as it turns out, the scanners at the Boise Airport simply cannot cope with any sort of menstrual product. The TSA agents are not all too gentle either. I mean god, you’d think she’d at least buy me a drink first.
You can see what I mean when I say I think I have bad luck with flying. I mean, this is all before even making it to the gate, and it’s already like the worst day ever. The next phase of humiliation comes from the fact that I am something of a “nauseous traveler.” I get motion sick, but even before that, I get very nauseous when I wake up too early and I get very anxious about flying, which in turn makes me more nauseous. So, I almost invariably go to a bathroom immediately after security to throw up. This is no big deal when flying out of JFK; it’s huge, and everyone is busy. In the Boise Airport, though? I can’t count the number of times well-meaning mothers have had a barrage of questions upon my exiting the bathroom stall. These include but are not limited to:
Are you sick? Where’s your mom? Should I call your mom? Are you traveling alone? Does a flight attendant know? Oh you’re an adult? Should I call your mom anyway? Can I say a prayer for you? Where are you headed? Why New York? Oh I’m too afraid to ever visit New York. I’ll pray for your safety in New York. Why are you throwing up? Are you sick? Are you ok, you seem tired?
And on and on and on. I understand they’re well-meaning! Still, the realization that these women always think I’m about 12 years old, feels like I’m just getting kicked while I’m down. Still, after all of this, I must brave the actual flying.
First of all, I throw up a ton on airplanes. People offer me their sick bags and ginger ale as I try my best to convince them I’m not sick despite all the evidence to the contrary. The worst part of puking on planes is keeping all your little puke bags and then you walk off the plane holding a bunch of little puke bags and then everyone circles you and laughs and points and calls you the little puke girl. True story.
I also have trouble reading the seat row numbers accurately and have been sitting in someone else’s seat more times than I’d like to admit, leading to a horrific nightmare situation of shuffling around, moving my backpack and apologizing profusely with a little bit of vomit on my chin, certainly horrifying the seat’s rightful occupant.
Additionally, I think that I attract unfortunate seatmates. A woman reading some sensual material on a Kindle in what must be the maximum font size, an unaccompanied minor who keeps waking me up to pee, leading to more throwing up on my part as I only sleep or get sick on airplanes, which then makes the child gag as well, a man who brought his own vodka shooters on board and winks at me while pouring one into his little cup of lemonade. You can see why I think that the universe is trying to dissuade me from getting on airplanes. The last flight that I took experienced the worst turbulence I’ve ever felt, and I essentially just thought, “Well, this is it. I should’ve listened.”
Hopefully I do make it back from Ireland, but if I don’t, you know why. I fear that if I keep ignoring the signs that flying isn’t meant for me, my nightmarish hubris will catch up to me. Honestly, if I ever were in a plane crash, I’m pretty sure everyone else would make it out just fine and I would like break my legs or something and it would just be sooooo embarrassing and they would all call me a little freak. Anyhoo, this has been my manifesto on why the United States is in desperate need of a high-speed rail system. The sky is simply not for everyone.