The power of circumstance has landed me in Italy again this year. Twenty-four days to last year’s ten. This is officially the longest trip on which I have ever embarked.
The clouds outside look like bubbling geysers of whipped cream.
I realise that I start almost all of these adventure posts with cloud comments. Turns out there’s not much else to look at from an aisle seat on a puddle jumper.
I need to learn the names of all of the cloud formations. Not because it’s crucial information, but because it sounds pretentious. Which is always useful.
Again with the tiny plane. My mum adores flying out of Flint Bishop International Airport. Granted the entire thing would fit in a school gymnasium, and there’s only 10 gates, three of which go out the same downstairs door directly to the tarmac, but it means double the ear pain in a short amount of time. Then do it again. Most of these flights don’t even have a cruising altitude. It’s just a bell curve with the outliers being my total flight time percentage of ear pain.
This ink looks green. It’s bright outside and my vision can’t adjust quick enough after looking outside.
A man in front of me has an enormous bald spot with a pitiful and scattered attempt at a combover. One single hair in the dead center of the top of his head is sticking straight up.
Time zones make flying interesting. Our first leg took off at 12h20 and landed at 12h25.
I was led to believe there was only one restaurant at Chicago O’Hare, and a mediocre one at that. I do not support the prospect of sitting 8+ hours on a plane with mediocre airport food sitting in a lump at the bottom of my stomach. So, I packed sandwich materials – turkey, swiss cheese, bread. Also carrot sticks. Nyah, airport food, take that.
There was however a problem, and a potentially detrimental one at that. They considered my lunch bag to be my “personal item” and gate-checked my backpack. With my 2000$ camera. And a month’s worth of crucial medication. I asked if they could guarantee that it would not be lost. “Oh, no. They never get lost. Well.. Maybe once a year.” And will it get squished? “Not usually.” Neither were entirely confidence inspiring. I asked the guy who took it from me at the gate to be careful with it. He said he would. I am not entirely sure it’s up to him in the end.
Pitiful Combover evidently does not understand the meaning of “seats and tray tables in the upright and locked position”. I am currently still squished. Best part is, he pressed the button on the seat, leaned forward, then sat back before releasing the button. So worse, I suppose, than not understanding. He just doesn’t know how to operate the seat.
It just occurred to me that there are no screaming children on this flight. And we’re already descending so I can’t jinx myself.
Gusty winds. 66 degrees. Turbulence. Ear pain. Not much longer. Then sandwich time.