So Far, Off to a Horrible Start
I got maybe, MAYBE two solid hours of sleep the night before my trip; the pain in my tail bone was that excruciating. There is absolutely no comfortable position I can assume to help alleviate the pain; I just hurt. The day of the trip was also a sort of important day at work, yet I decided around 6AM that I most definitely would not be able to make it in. It’s their own fault for not having a backup designer — I could NOT go to work. In fact, my tail bone was so swollen, I couldn’t get my pants on this morning. Amanda had to actually run and buy me bigger pants to accommodate my subdermal grapefruit. The people I work with were very understanding and even delivered a ziploc bag of Ibuprofen and two ice packs to my home. I spent the day packing. Verrrry slowwwwwly.
Between my ice packs and Ibuprofen, I figured I just about had the problem taken care of and defiantly strapped my skateboard onto my backpack. It remained there until about five minutes prior to leaving for the airport when reality came back from lunch. Skateboarding is not on my itinerary for the next several days.
My flight was not straight through — I had a single connection, and despite my lack of airport experience and “increased security measures”, the what/where/when part of my travel went off without a hitch. It was this whole “busted ass” thing that was a problem.
Finding my first plane was a no-brainer because my local airport is tiny. You just find “the plane” and get on it. I also don’t think my town is important enough to have jets; my plane had PROPELLERS on it. I didn’t know anybody flew propeller-driven planes aside from Cuban drug lords. Of course, I never saw nor heard the pilot before, during or after the flight and it didn’t take me long to put two and two together: The pilot was a Cuban drug lord. Inside, the cabin was a little smaller and more cramped than your average city bus. My participation in a Kitty Hawk reenactment was the least of worries though, as I could BARELY sit, in ANY position, no matter how I shifted my weight. Oh, and after takeoff it didn’t take long to figure out that these prop-jobs don’t offer quite as smooth of a ride as your average city bus and I swear to Karnov we were fish-tailing half the time. I also don’t remember if it was before or after the first round of fish-tailing that I remembered I get horrible motion-sickness. I put my headphones in, closed my eyes, and tried to focus on NOT puking while ignoring the voice in the back of my head that told me the seats could be used as flotation devices not because they are filled with air, but because they are made out of wood. Or very small rocks. Err…wait, that voice was in my ass — in the form of sharp, almost electrifying jolts of pain, coursing through my body at the rate of about 3 per second. Imagine bouncing on a bruised body part for an hour, with nearly all of your weight. Now for fuck’s sake STOP imagining that, because it could do irreparable psychological damage. It was the longest hour of my life.
The machine guns are mounted underneath.
When we landed, there was a delay in taxiing, as three other planes needed to get out of our way before we were allowed to deplane (that’s some sweet travel lingo I picked up). Though my itinerary promised about 50 minutes of downtime in Salt Lake, I really had more like fifteen, once I finally managed to deplane my crippled ass. All I wanted to do was lay face down on a bed of angel labia and fill my pants with warm whipped marshmallows, but I had a mission: I had vowed to purchase some dramamine for my connecting flight.
Let me briefly review with you what was in my stomach, to kinda give you an idea of the state of mind I was in at the time and thus, why my mission was not accomplished:
• A fistful of Ibuprofen
• 12oz. Heineken
• 12oz. of Red Bull
• 1 package “Grilled Cheese” airline crackers
This pass-out stew, combined with an hour of slow torture, had me a delirious. My thought process went a little something like this:
“Dramamine, dramamine, dramam–Oh, I should see what gate my pla–hey, a bar! I should get a–oh, a Starbucks! I should get an iced latte.”
I had barely sat down with my $5 coffee in an attempt to readjust my back when it was announced that my flight was boarding. In disgust, I slowwwwly picked myself back up, grabbed my bags and began my long journey to the plane. I guess I don’t really understand the point of “Gates” at Salt Lake airport because they all lead directly into the same hallway. My plane SUPPOSEDLY departed from Gate E76, but upon crossing Gate E76’s threshold was told to “continue to Door 21″. Of course, Gate E76 was directly adjacent to Gate 9. Door 21 was just under a gazillion miles away. Several times along my death march to Door 21, I saw complimentary wheelchairs scattered around. That would have been very useful, were I able to sit down. The whole situation started to get really surreal, and it wasn’t until after takeoff that it occurred to me that iced lattes don’t do a hell of a lot for motion sickness. Already in too much pain again to be pissed at myself, I again put my headphones in, closed my eyes, and tried to pretend this was a nightmare from which I would eventually awaken.
Aside from takeoff, during which all the blood in my body drained into my swollen mess of a coccyx, the jet ride was MUCH smoother, and the seats a tad more comfortable. This was fortunate because the flight was a little longer. About 20 minutes into the flight I added another package of airline cheese crackers to the witch’s brew in my stomach and miraculously, my motion sickness vanished. Despite my extreme discomfort, I enjoyed a good portion of media on my iPod while passengers around me, based on my posture and facial expression, ventured guesses at the size of my hemorrhoids. I made several attempts at sleep, but ever since I sustained this unholy injury, the only position in which I’ve been able to achieve sleep is “softly sobbing”. I also underestimated the difference in landings between the prop-job and the jet; I nearly passed out from the pain when we landed, even though I was supporting most of my weight on both armrests. Breathless and all but immobilized from pain, I allowed every passenger to get off before me, and it took at least a full minute to stand and get my overhead bag. Oh, did I mention that my tail bone hurt? The stewardess probably enjoyed accruing a little overtime while I shambled off the plane at a classic zombie’s pace (not that Dawn of the Dead remake bullshit).
Another obligatory wing shot.
Now that I know in ADVANCE how much the return trip is going to suck, I may start crying when I have to leave. I REALLY hope this heals a little bit while I’m here. So far, off to a horrible start.
June 22nd, 2007 at 12:32 pm
HAHAHAHAHA softly sobbing?!?!?! youre a goddamn genius sir hats off
June 22nd, 2007 at 1:29 pm
Iced Latte? Starbucks? What the fuck have you become? A softly sobbing swollen assed fread, I surmise.
June 22nd, 2007 at 1:30 pm
and if you didn’t know…fread was the neo goth way to spell freak.
June 23rd, 2007 at 5:23 pm
I have flown back and forth to Texas since I was in fourth grade, usually several times a year, and after reading this, I have to say, you are way better at travel stories than me. Nicely done. Your excruciating pain is the most entertaining thing to happen to me in a long time.