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A month in Europe is good for the American soul
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Emergency Sock Mask
As you arrive you become desperately aware of why you should have studied a foreign language back in sixth grade, when they tried to force it upon you. You won't flirt with any Lufthansa Flight Attendants if you cannot speak a word of intelligible thought. My mutterings sound similar to Victor Hugo's Quasimodo trying to order a beer from my Esmeralda in Flemish. Its not pretty.
On the way home, I had a wonderful seat next to a window, with a great view of the largest wing I have ever seen. This was my first time on a two-storied 747. But, if I recline my seat all the way back, so the dental assistant seated behind me could give me a good cleaning, I found it easiest to borrow her window. I might, somehow through the clouds, see something big and blue after all, like the Atlantic Ocean.
Upon boarding, I noticed that this flight was co-shared with many other airlines, bringing folks form all over the world together. None of which I could make out, as they all seem to advertise in farsi or arabic. However, as I am continually optimistic, I felt that this was my opportunity to have a truly multicultural experience. The fellow seated next to me, and the main blocker of my escape route, seemed to be a really nice chap. He tells me that he lives in Detroit. Our destination which we will surely reach in a very short 8 hours.
As he is going on and on about his family and friends back in the aboriginal and nomadic tribes of Yemen, I realize that the body odor level was at an all time high in our aisle. The aroma was pure mileage.
But do not be too quick to judge, fair reader. I, in no way, mean to point out the cultural differences between myself and my new found friend, other than to paint the picture and add the ambiance and aroma of my situation, for your edification.
With my olfactory nerve in sensory overload, I quickly remind myself that I am an adult, and I have no idea what this man has been through getting this far in a tiresome journey. He probably is as uncomfortable sitting next to me. I surely have an aroma that isn't perfect. After all, I have walked nearly the last three days of my journey across Germany, and I haven't even changed my socks.
Besides, he is most likely escaping some awful living circumstance and residing in Detroit, doing some job that most americans are too proud to do, for instance, a bathroom attendant at the local go-go lounge, or running for Congress or the House of Representatives.
Regardless I felt overwhelmed with enthusiasm for his journey and thought a present, a welcoming gift, if you will, would be a nice and dare I say Hospitable American Gesture. I would surprise him with it when he wakes up.
Just then the Flight Attendant, who I still cannot speak to, pushed a cart down the isle, while offering a nice selection of perfumes and colognes on the duty free cart. How Perfect, I thought to myself. So I selected one of my favorite aromas and asked for it to come in a spray. Perplexed, she would leave her cart and headed to the rear of the plane.
In the meantime, I began to get comfortable with the overstuffed and quit wonderful down pillow that Lufthansa felt obliged to provide to all of its passengers. It really was nice, and worked well, as it is quite thick and fluffy and it covered my mouth and nose completely, filtering out nearly all of my seat-mates odor. I nearly asphyxiated.
My cologne arrived and I opened it immediately. Faking as to spray it on my neck, I got my seat-mate good. He was very upset. I immediately went into to accident recovery mode and began apologizing profusely. I thought that I should buy him a drink, you know, something that would help calm down to a dull roar, and maybe even get him back off to sleep. He smiled and politely declined. He doesn't drink. So I ordered for myself. Maybe they have something that would make me sleep, like red wine. Which, as it turns out, is free.
Red Wine. Perfect. When the attendant poured my second glass, she did so directly above my seat-mate's lap. This got me to thinking. I even joked to him about how I was glad that she hadn't spilled any wine on him, as well. He smiled and mentioned that it wouldn't be any big deal. She spills on him, he just goes home and takes a shower. Being that this is something he desperately needed, I quickly quaffed down my second glass and looked to order a third. After all, I technically had his permission. But as she poured my third glass of wine, I didn't feel that I should waste any of the elixir which seemed to be my only remedy. Besides, how much could I really get her to spill on him? One glass certainly wouldn't do it.
Flying from Frankfurt to Detroit is an eight hour ordeal. With seven hours now remaining, the crew on board began their inflight meal service. To begin, crew members pass out hot wash towels. My seat-mate was perplexed by this ordeal and I noticed him mimic my hand washing process. The thought came to me so fast I couldn't stop myself. In a flash, I had my t-shirt over my head and off, and commenced to give myself a furious sponge bath with a heavy emphasis on my armpit region. I was hoping that my seat-mate would join in the chorus. He didn't follow suit. As I disappointingly finished, I noticed that the flight attendant was looking at me as if I had two heads. I sheepishly put my t-shirt back on and accepted the beef dinner.
As my embarrassment subsided, I realized that I had some five and a half hours of flying remaining, with which is a great amount of time to reflect about my recent month long travels of Europe. I began to recount each and every last one of the kilometers that I had walked during my visit. Utilizing the public rail system, I was reflecting on my ability to cover a good portion of Europe. My visit to Castle Frankenstein at dusk on a cold evening in Darmstadt Germany, walking the hilly terrain of Lausanne, Switzerland with my good friend Lida as we enjoyed the beauty of the Alps. Visiting the fairy tale city of Brugge in Belgium. Touring all of its medieval buildings and sampling all its wonderful chocolates. I enjoyed a cheap flight on Ryan Air to Ireland, where I visited the Guinness factory, toured Trinity College, and cheered on my friends who competed in the Dublin Marathon. I began to regret turning down an invitation to visit the Netherlands, thinking that I had a few miles left on these boots, when it hit me. My Socks! Why haven't I thought of this before?
Taking my boots off to get comfortable, I realized that I had one last weapon left in my arsenal of odor fighting apparatus. My socks. Quickly, I removed them and tied them into a loop. Just large enough that I could get my head through. I pulled the newly formed headband down over my ears, where the footbed of one of these lovelies was positioned perfectly over my nose and mouth. A charcoal mask of sorts.
This, however, attracted the attention of the Air Marshall who quickly approached me, trying to figure out my intentions for the plane and if donning my new mask was any kind of safety concern. As he got to my isle, he was overcome, and I thought that he might vomit or pass out. Confused by what he could not see, he decided to keep a close eye on me from about 12 rows back. Needless to say, I did see or hear from him again for the remainder of the flight.
With a stellar view of the wing outside my window, free red wine, and the occasional spray of cologne directly onto my new sock mask, I safely returned home to the United States without any incidents to report. I do apologize to my seat mate as my fifth glass of wine did happen to get knocked over on him while I slept. This was in no way anything less than an unplanned accident. My seat mate just laughed and said, "no problem!" You were sleeping pretty good.
With an hour remaining on our flight, my seat mate began telling me about his wife and children who he has left back in Yemen. And how the last 16 years of living and working in Detroit has been so hard on them all. I realized the sacrifice this man has made just to live and work in America is something real. Unfortunately, we are all to quick to judge. If we could all sacrifice that American trait, it would be pure mileage.
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