Love and Flying

Never in my life have I had such bad luck with planes.

Who am I kidding. Airlines routinely lose my luggage, I've never been seated in an emergency exit (unless theres a small, tantrum-throwing child also seated behind me...) and I've barely made it on countless flights with one actually missed. I should have seen this coming. And forewarned Hubs before he committed to a life of stressful flight experiences.

We start at the beginning, the flight to Dubai. We were so excited to begin earning our badge of "World Travelers" we could hardly stand it. And when the cab company scheduled a pickup for three hours before our flight at 3pm on a Saturday, we accepted, thinking the Russians know best.

When will we learn our lesson?

As we're driving along, completely turned around, I can't help but look at my clock. Inconspicuously, of course. It's unfair to only occasionally be neurotic about being on time and project that on everyone. No one likes it when the person who doesn't panic is panicking.

I think our cab driver was panicking, too, because he was driving more crazy than normal cab drivers in Moscow. And he was taking all these side streets, at one point even cutting through a parking lot to get ahead of the crowd. I was not a fan, and absolutely certain that we would miss our flight. And I'm starting to get frustrated. But, looking at my sweet husband next to me, who was so calm, collected and surprisingly optimistic, I just kept it to loud sighs and private eye rolls to slow pedestrians.

And we were late. Half an hour after the plane took off, we arrive at the airport. Luckily, we were able to make it on the 1am flight. (I use the word, "lucky" very loosely in this situation...) We had to make it by Hub's training at 8am, so we knew it would be cutting it close, but at least now we had eight hours to get through customs and make sure we weren't late for this flight.

We did make it. Barely. Hubs and I checked into the hotel ten minutes after Hub's ride to the training left, so he hopped in the shower, got ready in record time and made it to day one. I was so proud of him. He didn't get any good sleep and now here I was, at the hotel, spoiled rotten with this big fluffy bed andzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

But that is nothing in comparison to our flight home. Hubs has been dying for me to tell this story, because it's already funny to him. And while it is pretty funny, I must admit, the details may not be for any of you with a weak stomach.

I woke up feeling awful on the day we were set to fly home. Just. Awful. So awful that as soon as I got up, I immediately ran to the toilet and hurled. Yep, I did. I thought I would feel better, but I didn't. So I took a shower, got ready, puked again, brushed my teeth and walked out the door with Hubs. Who was sweet enough to be concerned rather than amused.

I sat in the waiting room. Rather, slumped in the waiting room, and requested a bag (sturdy please...) and a bottle of water. After getting both and settling our hotel charges, off we went in the taxi. We made it less than a mile before I lost it again. Which prompted our taxi driver, in his thick accent to tell us to not get any on the seat. Thanks, dude. I got this.

Made it to the airport, and by now we're running a little late. We really didn't want a repeat of part one, so on we pushed. Carry-on and rolly suitcase in one hand, puke bag in the other. Didn't make it fifty feet before...you guessed it. Right in the crosswalk on the way in. If I was capable in that moment of feeling anything but extreme nausea, I would've been embarressed.

Hubs waited in line at check-in as I sat/slumped, puke bag still in tow. Here it comes again... And poor Hubs looks over in time to see it. Also seeing it, an older British couple, whom Hubs overheard saying, "oh dear, I believe that women is throwing up! Somebody should help her..." I grab the water and start sipping, desperate for anything in my stomach now.

After a slight mix-up with the ticket, we make it. And Hubs, who is trying very hard to take care of my health and us making it home in time, looks me in the eye and says, "honey, I'm so sorry you feel bad. Just stick with me, we're running late and we need to hurry." Big girl pants on now. Got to suck it up. So I do. I'm keeping up, feeling pretty good, and then I wasn't. As I'm burying my face in my puke bag right before security, I'm still walking to keep up with Hubs and get a good spot in line. And that was the last I saw of that bag. Time to get to the terminal, and I'm pretty sure that it wouldn't make it through the x-ray scanner.

In the end we made it. And thank Baby Jesus we had an extra seat on our row, so I could lay down and sleep the entire five hour flight. By the end, Moscow in our sights, I was feeling much, much better. Bold enough to even say I was 100%...

And then I didn't feel better, thanks to some wicked turbulence. And did you know that the bags they give on flights aren't lined anymore? Luckily, I married an engineer, who had proactively lined it with a plastic bag that held an airline blanket.

We landed. Survived. And eventually had a good laugh about it. (Mostly Hubs had a good laugh...) I, on the other hand felt overwelmingly good about Hub's capacity to take care of another human being. Not that there was ever a doubt in my mind that he is gentle, caring and mostly compassionate, but he really took care of me in what I would consider one of my lower moments. Including those where he has to hold my puke bag so I can find my passport. That, ladies, is a man.

Now, he won't stop talking about the firsts that we tackled. "I've never seen someone puke so much!" and "I've never actually seen someone puke on a plane before!" are my favorites. He doesn't often request blog topics, so I had to indulge him in this one.

Cheers to the people who take care of us at our lowest. Better than any medicine.