Corn Pups and Wall-E.

Airport travel. There is nothing like it, in terms of people watching, and awkward situations, and having endless time to sit and think and watch CNN in your own sweat. (I have a notebook filled with musing and “serial killer poetry” from all the time I spent on planes when I studied abroad my junior year.)  Most of the time I’m worried about becoming my mother, but when I catch myself wandering around an airport muttering “I hate people” under my breath after the 67^th person has cut me off with their roll-ey suitcase, I am faintly certain I am becoming my father too.

I started this most recent AWESOME AND THRILLING airport trip at the Denver International Airport. My boyfriend dropped me off there, in what was our official good-bye as he finally makes his way to L.A. We probably won’t see each other for eight weeks. Though this sucks, we had already had an “emotional” good-bye when he left Boston. (At that point, I had yet to determine that I was going to swindle my Dad’s Delta miles from him and head out to Kansas for one last hurrah in Middle America.) So this time he kinda just dropped me off, and I was running a tad late, and, I mean, obviously I cried, (duh it’s one of my favorite hobbies), but it was for only like, a minute and I’m still quite upset over MJ so that was part of it too. Then I ran inside and began thinking about what tabloid to buy, otherwise known as “serenity now.”

(Some interesting observations about the Denver International Airport: they have fake bird chirping noises playing throughout the facilities, and their women’s bathrooms double as tornado safety zones. Yay! Oh, and yes of course I spent most of my trip out there saying “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore” to myself, especially whenever we passed the state line going to and fro Kansas City. It was loads of fun. Kansas City on the other hand….not so much.)

On the flight to Atlanta I felt extremely ill. I was sitting next to two teenagers, who were either dating or brother and sister or perhaps both, and this feeling of swiney-ness was compounded by the fact that I was in the window seat, and the duo kept leaning over me to look out the window the entire flight. Pretty sure it was their first time in a plane. At one point, I felt so bloated that I undid my belt and the button of my jeans (whatever you do it sometimes too) and then like an hour later realized my Bruce t-shirt had ridden up and I was slumped over in my seat like an obese meth addict. So, that was fun, and I was sweating violently to boot.

I refused to believe that the feelings of imminent vomiting were brought on by my anxiety at my boyfriend moving 3,000 miles away from me, oh, yeah, and also that small fact that I’m about to start acting school and I majored in Political Science and like AH WHAT IS GOING ON. But still, feeling puke-ish because of “emotional reasons” is so lame and I am not lame. Plus, there are a few reasons to back up my belief that I was actually ill: 1) I felt sick throughout the entire time I was in Boulder, which I think had something to do with the altitude, and much of the time I was there I wanted to pass out and I kept only finishing 35% of my drinks and am convinced I’m turning into my mother 2) My flight came equipped with the TV thing-y in front of me, and no one can be in a bad mood when they can watch CNN’s coverage of MJ’s death and/or listen to Taylor Swift and lastly, 3) My boyfriend’s old apartment in Boulder (where we stayed with his best college buddie) was so filthy that I think I contracted small pox while in the shower.

(Having graduated a year ago, I had forgotten how men live while they are in college. Though I’m no clean freak myself, it’s truly a thing to behold. Debris and pieces of leaves and mold everywhere, rogue hairs in the sink and shower, curled up magazines, dishes that look decades old, resting your bare arms and head on couches that were found in the dump….it’s all so sexy, isn’t it?)

Back to Atlanta. So I land, feeling ill, and decide that maybe eating is a good idea. Could be disastrous, but you never know. I eat a Turkey sub at some place called “Wall Street Deli.” I finish The Steve Martin autobiography my boyfriend let me snag from his apartment. (It’s fabulous. I kept fantasizing that Steve was going to be in the ATL airport at the same time as me, flying coach to Boston, and we would lock eyes as I was laughing at one of his passages about doing stand-up in Florida in his twenties and become best friends. Shockingly, this did not occur.) At one point, a woman my age came over in horribly broken English, and asked me to help her call home to Honduras on one of those International pay phones. I helped her, and five minutes later felt very into touch with Jeanine, who toads would have made the call AND begin chatting up the lady in Spanish.

Then I realized that though my ticket was confirmed, I had no seat assigned. When I went to get my seat, the ticket man asked me if I was over fifteen. Hmmm.

Then we all got on the plane. I got to my seat, 40F, a window, and saw that it was being taken up by a lovely Asian woman. “Excuse me, miss,” I said to her from the aisle, holding out my ticket. “You’re actually in my seat.” (Also, do you know my brother?) The man next to her stood up and, in broken English (a theme!), said, “We are couple, do you mind sit in my seat?” He showed me his ticket, 39F. Of course, I said. 39, 40? Tomato, Tahmato! “Oh, you are the nicest persons,” he said, smiling. That made me feel good. I am the nicest of persons!

The feeling soon disappated. About two minutes later the captain came on the loudspeaker. “I have some bad news folks,” he drawled. “This plane will not be leaving the airport for at least another three-and-a-half hours. It’s gotten really bad up in Boston. You’re going to have to de-plane.” A collective groan went up in the plane. (At the very least, I felt part of a community! I love airplanes for that!)

So with the departure time changed until 10:15, I meandered back into the gate area. I plopped down (aka threw my laptop on the ground), gave a good hearty sigh, and turned my attention to CNN, where Sanjay Gupta was talking to MJ’s nurse about drugs or Peter Pan or something.

I was distracted, and mildly intrigued. A heavy woman walked by me on her cellphone, plugged it into an outlet in the wall to charge and continued squawking, “Yeah, so they DE-PLANED us, and you know we might not even get to Boston tonight and…I KNOW! You should see all the people here with their eyes on the news, rubber-necking this train wreck, it’s so sick…..I KNOW!….enough already! Get a life right?? I KNOW, it’s pathetic!”

Clearly, she stank. I gave her the Mendelson stink-eye, and continued to watch Wolf Blitzer’s take on MJ’s nose job.

The flight was delayed another hour, until 11:15. Though not hungry, I began to worry about being trapped in the airport all night and starving to death and having to eat the fat woman on the phone making fun of me for watching CNN. (A normal fear, correct?) Plus, I still felt queasy. Maybe, just maybe, that sub hadn’t been enough. A store-front called “Krystal Hamburger” beckoned to me with red lights.

I approached. A young, sassy check-out girl with long bright green nails smiled at me. Soon, I was ordering a strawberry slushie and a slider. Why? I’m still not sure. I was bored. And lonely. Gross fast food helps. My slider came in a box with a woman’s face on it, and her “story.” Her name was Anne, she was from Tennessee, and she was in the Krystal Hall of Fame, because, I quote, “I don’t let anything stop my cravings! So when I passed a Krystal on the way to the hospital to give birth, I knew my first-born son would have to wait. I had to get my corn pups!”

Corn pups over birth, Anne? Yikes.

I ate the food, started to watch a movie on my laptop, and felt vaguely like my life was going to end in the Atlanta International airport. It was all quite peaceful. But soon we were back on the plane. I got to 39F. Before, I had not met my seat mate. Now I did. She was about four foot eleven, and looked to be about 102. Lady spoke no English, and was carrying a box of El Poco Loco that was about the size of her upper body. Hmmm. A flight attendent with a Boston accent came on the loudspeaker, which for some reason thrilled me. She informed us that because we’d been so patient and good-spirited with the delay, Delta was going to get all craaaaazy and let us watch Seventeen Again, and give out free headsets. I KNOW, RIGHT??? I was pumped. I got my headseat; it didn’t work. I pouted at Zac’s head on the big screen for a few moments, thought about how I can become Leslie Mann, then shrugged, and got out my laptop. As I watched Wall-E, and inhaled the smell of fried chicken, my little El Salvadorian granny friend leaned over, smiling at me, and the cartoon, whispering “Buenos noches” over and over again.

Is it weird that this movie made me miss my boyfriend? He sort of looks like Wall-E….

(Soon after I got home, I talked to my friend Seth, who was stuck in LAX for 15 hours after his flight was cancelled. Like me, he’d boarded, but then had been told to “deplane as fast as possible” after the pilots smelled gasoline coming out the air-conditioning vents. I think his airport story may win….Oh, well.)