I am so exhausted that I can not think straight as I make my way to the gate for my flight to Riga. I keep thinking that I’ve lost my passport though it is in my handy passport/ ticket/ wallet holder that is hanging around my neck. I’ve been up about 24 hours at this point.
Boarding is announced and I dutifully follow the lead of my fellow passengers down the frigging stairs. I am lugging my carry-on (which at this point weighs 2000 pounds) to the outside. Remember, Stockholm is freezing! We trudge through the freaking ice patch covered tarmac to our crop duster / prop plane and go up more stairs to the plane. As we march along, I start thinking of a scene in The Pianist in which the Nazis herded the Jewish populace into railcars and eventual death. Exhaustion has made me morbid.
I squeeze past the flight attendant who greets us at the door. She is curiously dressed as though for an arctic expedition. I locate my seat. I wedge my thighs between the armrests. I have to get out of my seat to pull the seat belt out from under my ass because there is no room for me to lift up my butt or swivel around and reach under to grab it. I know that my seat-mate is as curious as I am to see if the two sides of the buckle will meet. Thankfully it does click right into place after I pull the strap to the very end. My seat mate has commandeered the armrest and I try to contort my body into a position that resembles human comfort.
I have officially nicknamed this leg of my journey: Hell Ride.
I sigh loudly, surrendering to my fate for the next sevety five minutes and that’s when I notice the smoke coming out of my mouth.
What the fuck?
It’s not smoke, it’s just so fucking cold on this plane that I can see my breath!
Oh Jesus.
To Be Continued…
