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I’m on a plane, flying to Philadelphia to do…what I do.
There’s a young girl sitting next to me holding the barf bag to her lips, trying to decide whether to breathe or barf.
And all I can think is, “you *could* get up and go the bathroom, ya know.” That, and, “perhaps I should offer some words of comfort or at least shared misery…a story of my own sickness over the high seas?”
But I don’t. Cause that might make it worse.
I was once sick on a plane flying from Nairobi to Amsterdam. I got out of my seat and took three steps before nearly falling over. That was when a kind woman who’d been watching me grow paler and paler over a few minutes time offered me a bigger barf bag, and proceeded to shut the curtain between her and the food-alley-place on the airplane in which I was keeled over (since flight attendants were blocking the aisle to the bathroom with their drink carts…plus, I couldn’t walk.).
I’m wishing there was a curtain on this plane. Because I have a weak stomach. AND we’re experiencing some turbulence.
Also, I’m watching Julie & Julia. Which is really why I started writing in the first place.
I mean. I can’t cook in flight.
But I can blog.
\ post-landing note: Neither my weak-stomached neighbor nor myself barfed today. Instead, we opened windows and had a nice little chat to distract ourselves from her illness and the bumpy landing. Turns out, she’s quite a smart girl studying Human Rights at the University of Chicago. She wants to go to India and work with an NGO creating jobs for women and advancing education opportunities for children living in poverty. Weak stomach = cool girl.\
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amy courts: en route 