New Apartment in NYC!

Zack and I signed our lease for next year. It's a two bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a building at 20th and 1st in Stuyvesant Town.

Here are a couple snaps of the surrounding area, first south down 1st:

...and to the north:

And here's Zack, standing in front of our entrance off 1st Ave.

Entering the building, there's a hallway to the elevators.

The door to the apartment opens onto the living area:

To the left is the kitchen:

Note the appliances, including a dishwasher, microwave, and fridge, the marble counters...

...and the sweet gas range!

To the right of the living area are the bedrooms and bathroom. The bedrooms are very similar. The first bedroom, which is on the west side of the bathroom looks like this:

...and out the window, it has a nice view of 1st Ave:

Between the bedrooms, there's a shared bathroom, with a nice sink and toilet:

...and also a bath and shower:

To the east of the bathroom is the second bedroom. Instead of two smaller closets, it has one large closet. Here is a picture of it, with Zack providing a sense of scale.

The second bedroom has a similar view onto 1st Ave. Each bedroom and the living area has an air conditioning unit.

And here is a quick video tour; I'm sorry that I kept switching the camera angle! It's an .avi file. I'm sorry I couldn't get something more conventional, but that's what the camera happened to take. Let me know if you have any idea how I might convert it to something more conventional.

I'll be moving up at the beginning of June and Zack towards the end of the month.

Smith's Morocco Trip Pictures

Trip descriptions aren't nearly as fun without pictures; here are some from the trip to Morocco. Thanks to a thieving gypsy, I didn't have my camera, but thanks to Smith, this trip was recorded for posterity.

I fit in perfectly in Fes. The local outfit is a djellaba.

This is my associate, Smith, riding the Moroccan rails.

Tannery in Fes.

Tiles drying out in the sun.

After the tiles are dried, fired, and broken into shapes, they're laid out like this to make mosaics.

A graveyard by the beach.

Don't know why I'm standing like that, but this was out walking the beach in Casablanca.


Largest mosque in Africa!

Minaret in Marrakech.

Morocco Trip Day 4: March 25

We arrived in Marrakech in the mid-afternoon. The train ride was quite long, but it was very scenic. Rabat and Marrakech are on the coast, but Marrakech is inland towards the Atlas Mountains. The train wended its way through scrubby desert that reminded me a bit of the American West--Tahoe and SoCal, perhaps. Re rock, sparsely populated by cactus and thin, wispy trees. We would pass an occasional group of low houses and the small children waved at the train. at one town, the train stopped to let another pass on the same track. Most of the train spilled out to the desert, where we stretched our legs and tried to hit trees with rocks.

Marrakech feels like a very big, cosmopolitan city. There are Moroccan flags, policemen, and soldiers everywhere. This was probably because there were more tourists here than anywhere else we've seen. Smith was very keen on seeing snake charmers, and as soon as we found the medina, we indeed found a group of men playing horns and taunting a clutch of irritated cobras. The men worked the crowd, draping snakes around tourists to take pitures. As they became more aggressive about asking for money, we got ourselves lost in the medina again. Unlike Fes' chaos or Casablanca's selection of knockoffs, Marrakech struck a nice balance. Just when we thought it was too tame, we'd turn a corner and see jars topped with sheep heads or be led to a tannery with the smell of rotting flesh. We found delicious warm bread, fresh peanuts, and remarkable fried bread in the shape of a doughnut, dropped into a pot of roiling oil and fished out with a thick steel hook and so hot that it was threaded onto a piece of grass tied into a loop from which we could eat it piping hot.

We leave very early tomorrow morning for Marrakech's airport.

Morocco Trip Day 3: March 24

After a leisurely breakfast in Rabat, Smith and I hurried on to our next destination: Casablanca. The train ride skirted the coastline--the ocean is a beautiful green here.We got off the train at the port area. Everything smelled very strongly of fish. We wandered a bit before grabbing a taxi. The driver took us to a hotel--for a commission, of course--but that seems to be how things are done around here. After dropping our bags, we set out exploring.

Casablanca's medina is in some ways not quite as interesting as those in Fes or Rabat. It's mostly poor quality knockoffs of Western brand names. But our walk was very pleasant. On the far side of the medina was one of the most amazing sights i've seen in my life.

The Mosque Hassan II is the largest mosque in Africa and it sits right on the coast. The minaret is absolutely enormous and certainly seems as tall as an American skyscraper. It dominates Casablanca's skyline. Dressed in shorts and t-shirts, we would not have felt right about going in, but the exterior architecture was plenty to gawk at. Afterwards, we took a very long walk down the beach to a lighthouse. Smith and I made a very odd pair by local standards, so the children were eager to stare and chat. We responded in terrible French. The beach was covered in little soccer games and drum circles of considerable musical talent. We waded in the warm water and sunned on the big white rocks. Afterwards, we walked back through a very wealthy neighborhood of mansions that would not have looked out of place in Seattle's most exclusive areas.

We had a bit of an adventure after dinner. We were eating outside a small cafe when our neighbor wanted to start a conversation. We quickly established that Smith and I did not speak French and Joasin, our new friend, did not speak English, so things looked grim until I told Joasin that Smith had studied Italian. He knew a bit, so Smith and he struck up a bit of a conversation. When we had finished our "the al a menthe," Joasin invited us for drinks. Muslims do not drink, but there are a very few bars that cater to tourists and more secular folk. We learned that Joasin was a doctor and 27 years old. He bought us the local beer, Especiale, which was very bitter but also very good and delicious in the warm evening. He introduced us to his friends, a professor English, who was able to translate a bit ("Is Morocco savage by American standards?" he asked), a painter, who offered me a portrait, and an older fellow who, we were told, was a famous Moroccan actor and had, in fact, collaborated with Americans in the movie "Casablanca Express." Joasin urged us to visit his house and meet his mother and friends the next day, but Smith and I plead time, as tomorrow we had to get to Marrakech: four nights; four cities! Joasin reluctantly took us back to the hotel, but only after giving us his address and extracting from us a promise that we would write to him from England.

Morocco Trip Day 2: March 23

This morning, the hotel manger invited us to see his uncle's pottery factory. It was amazing. Smith and I got a personal tour from the manger, who walked us through the entire process. They quarry gray clay from about 8km away. All the clay in Morocco is red except for this gray quarry near Fes. They soak it in pits before drying it in the sun and then wetting and pounding it to make it malleable. They then throw them on traditional wheels powered by the artist's legs. Absolutely everything is done completely by hand. After the pieces are shaped and dried again, they are painted. This is also done entirely by hand and completely done from the imagination of the individual artist--no stencils or preset patterns. Each piece is absolutely unique. The pigments are all natural minerals--kohl for black, saffron for yellow, but the proud, especially local product is cobalt. Painted on in a gentle lavender, firing turns it an intense, dark blue. The kilns are fueled by crushed olive pits, which are spread in mounds and plots around the factory, baking the in sun. The kilns reach almost 1,000C and it takes about a week of gradual cooling to prevent the sudden temperature drop from shattering the contents. Most of what is cooked is tile for making mosaics. Each tile is chipped by hand into one of about 750 standardized shapes for mosaic tables, fountains, mirror frames, etc. Everything is done by hand with a broad chisel. On any given day,the manager told us, there are about a hundred men working in the factory, laying tiles in the sun, shaping teapots and dishes, painting intricate designs, fueling the kilns, chipping the tile, and chiseling the enamel.

Smith and I then took the afternoon train to Rabat. For several hours, the tranquil, rolling Moroccan countryside flew by our window. The compartment was just the two us at the beginning, but it filled quickly with a diverse group, speaking French and Arabic into their cell phones.

Rabat is the capital, and is quite modern and Western in comparison to Fes. After finding a cheap hotel and watching a bit of Arabian basketball on television (go Al Nasir!) we explored the older part of the city. Spying a beautiful wall, we decided to see what was behind it and we found ourselves in a massive graveyard. As we ascended to the top of a hill, we were quite startled to see the ocean. We had no idea we were in a coastal city. We walked along the beach and out onto a jetty, enjoying the company of hip youngsters. After grabbing some delicious potato chips fried right before our eyes in an enormous kettle of oil, we explored the old fortified casbah and the sultan's palace gardens before walking back through a lively night market to our hotel. The gardens had some of the sweetest smelling plants I had ever experienced. Orange blossoms, lemon grass, and a tree of enormous white flowers with a name that I couldn't understand. Tomorrow, Smith and I intend to explore Rabat a tiny bit more before continuing our whirlwind tour with an afternoon train to Casablanca.

Morocco Trip Day 1: March 22

Greetings from Morocco! It's been only a few hours into the trip, and it's already been an amazing adventure. Smith and I took the early bus out to Luton and we hung out a bit before taking the 6:30a flight to Fes. My luck with flying partners never seems to fail. You might recall the woman sitting next to me on my initial flight to London who managed to start vomiting before we had taken off. But I digress. The woman sitting next to my right was terrified of flying. Her friend sat across the aisle tightly holding her hand as she desperately tried not to sob openly. I was afraid she would be sick or have some sort of violent episode, but the worst it got was some frantic questioning of things going on in the plane and, later, leaning her head and crying into my shoulder.

As we walked out to the plane in London, it was snowing a bit, which made the contrast in weather all the more apparent. Morocco was bright and sunny. The airport was surrounded by palms and the orange trees in the parking lot were fruiting. The airport was like any in Europe, but we eventually started noticing differences. On the bus trip into town, as we passed little cafes, we also passed shepherds ushering their flocks alongside the road. The animals didn't end when we got into the city.

The middle of Fes is a district called the medina, and it is essentially an enormous market--there are thousands of streets and it's incredibly easy to get lost. There are not mapsfor the tiny alleys that make up the district. Fortunately, there are children everywhere that know the place intimately and will take you anywhere for a few coins. However, one has to look out for hustling grownups, who eagerly offer to act as guides, but in reality take commissions from the shops to which they divert unsuspecting tourists!

The market really defies description. Storekeepers shout at every tourist. Guides lead groups of Westerners through the narrow streets, squeezing past heavily laden donkeys and avoiding the stray cats that run about everywhere, lapping at puddles and nibbling the merchandise. The voices are a chaotic mixture of French, Arabic, Spanish, and I was greeted in Japanese more than a few times. Smith and I were really wanting an authentically Moroccan lunch, so we wandered for hours, getting let to overpriced tourist traps. Finally, we ran into a friendly local who took us to his own favorite lunch place. They served us spicy stews with their ubiquitous loaves of chewy bread shaped in puffy brown circles. We're now kicking it in our luxurious hotel room, listening to the bustling sounds of the medina floating up through the metalwork of our window.

One of the highlights of the medina was the tannery. The smell was absolutely horrific. Trying to listen to the explanation of the process while not choking and gagging was a feat of concentration and poise. I made the mistake of expressing interest in a camel skin attache and it took 15 minutes to express that I couldn't afford it.

...


Smith and I just got back from a nocturnal jaunt around the medina. We got cornered by the world's most persistent guide, a young fellow by the name of Hamad. For a mere 40 dirham--say $5--he took us to the ruins of a castle, high on a hill and overlooking the city. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It as perfectly clear and there was a huge, bright crescent moon. There was an old graveyard with scattered white stones--"Moroccan alabaster," said Hamad--up the hill behind us.

Hamad told me my skin was light "like cheese" and that I could pass for a Berber. Accordingly, he offered to sell me a Berber "aphrodisiac rug," which would guarantee me "many mistresses." smith and I declined as politely as we could. We wandered for an hour or so, sipping from enormous glass 1 liter Coca Colas and gnawing on more chewy, round bread. The entrepreneurial spirit here is the healthiest I've ever experienced. In a short walk tonight we were offered hashish, heroin, cocaine, and prostitutes both Moroccan and American. On the one hand, I've never felt so harassed. But on the other hand, it's tremendous fun to chat with the locals. I've traveled to a lot of Western European countries and the contact with the people who live there is practically nonexistent. In our little walk with Hamad, we covered all sorts of politics, theology, and he even gave me a little lesson in Japanese.

Tomorrow, we are off to see the big pottery factory. They are supposed to have amazing coloring through the use of cobalt and silver. Afterwards, we are planning to take the train to Rabat, the capital.

International Council for the Exploration of the Sea

After Thursday’s hectic running around, I had a much more relaxed day yesterday. In the morning, I attended my father’s presentation. Most of the talks were very easy for the layman to understand. They were concerned with getting accurate and consistent data from trawling. Chief included the conflict between improving technique vs. keeping it the same for reasons of comparability, and the matter of whether or not to work closely with the fishing industry and doing research from their boats.

My father’s presentation was more theoretical and sought to clarify the differences and differences in application of two distinct types of statistical analysis.

In the evening, we went to a fancy closing dinner put on by the conference organizers. It was again on Mt. St. Pieter right next to the ruins of the fort. They offered a brief tour. I learned that the fort was built around 1700 to defend against French invasion. We got to see the cannons, which were accurate to one meter down to the river, which looked to be a good half mile away, and we also got to check out the place where they kept their prisoners. Very creepy!

Today, my father and one of his colleagues named Sumerton and I are hoping to go to Aachen, Germany.

Hiking Small Towns in Belgium

I had planned to explore northwest Maastricht yesterday, but at the last minute, I changed my mind and decided to walk up Mt. St. Pieter. It’s a hill just south of town, and there are ruins of a fortification on it. On top, there is a small nature preserve with some sheep, and beautiful views to the west of Belgian farmland.

Sheep on Mt. St. Pieter

Belgian farm

I at the southern end of the mountaintop, I saw some old farm buildings and I saw a large mine. A tour guide that was walking by said that it was something to do with making concrete.

Mine near Mt. St. Pieter

The farms on the Belgian side looked so pretty, I decided to hike down the western side of the mountain and into the Belgian town of Kanne. Again, there was no border to speak of—the dominant language just suddenly switched from Dutch to French.

A path on the road from Maastricht to Kanne

On my way into Kanne, I came around a bend to see an enormous castle built into the cliff face. There was man taking photographs of it, and he told me that it was open to the public, so I took a little path over a stream and up to the castle. Apparently, this castle belonged to a people who defended Limborg from outside invaders in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

There was wonderful sculpture everywhere. The building is beautiful.

Chateau Neercanne

I ordered an iced coffee at a café, and received a scoop of ice cream with a cup of coffee poured on top of it. No complaints—it was awesome. I chatted briefly with the waitress, who had studied abroad near Chicago and was eager to speak English. She said that there was not a whole lot of sightseeing around, but I was perfectly content to just enjoy the natural scenery.

The new suspension bridge at Kanne

I took the road south of Kanne and came to the town of Eben-Emael. There was an important WWII fort there, but I couldn’t take a tour without a reservation.

Ft. Eben-Emael.

I continued south along the main road to the town of Bassenge, somewhat larger than the others. There was a very pretty church and more cafes. I saw a sign indicating Lanaye, where I had just been the day before.

Church in Bassenge

I then turned around and got back on the road to Maastricht.

Cycling in the Countryside

This morning, I had brunch at the hotel, read some history, and took care of some email. My father got out of his meetings at around one, so we went to the old city to rent bikes for the afternoon. We had planned to take the path by the river south to the next town, Eijsden. But even though we had started quite late—a little after two—we were pleased to find that we had quite a lot of time before we had to return the bicycles at six.

Maastricht is built to be extremely accommodating to cyclists—there is a clearly defined lane in a different color of asphalt and no one wears helmets. As we were cycling south, we saw on the horizon a very pretty church tower and an interesting suspension bridge.

We wanted to check it out but it appeared to be across a river. It was actually west of the Maas. I suspect it may have been the Jerker River. There was a very cute ferry that took people across from Eijsden for one Euro.

My father and I on the ferry to Lanaye

After the five minute ride across, we noticed that the signs had switched to French and Belgian flags were flying. We had completely unwittingly crossed an international boundary. The casualness of borders within the EU is really striking. At a stand where we bought juice, the woman did not speak a word of English. The Dutch speak it quite perfectly and without any hesitation or (apparent) irritation. But it seems that the francophone people are much less interested in accommodating American interlopers.

The Belgian town across the river from Eijsden, we discovered, was called Lanaye. The suspension bridge was at a spot called Pont de Lanaye.

On the bridge at Pont de Lanaye

Barges at Pont de Lanaye

We had time to return up to Maastricht and cycle around to the deer park in the city before returning the bikes.

We ventured to go to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. I was curious to see how Americans and the Dutch differed in their interpretations. What’s outstanding here, I have found, is the quality of the meat. It’s great.

My father’s in meetings all day tomorrow. I plan to try to write some postcards and catch up more on my reading. I might also wander a bit in the northeast area of Maastricht, which I haven’t really checked out very thoroughly yet.

My father presents his paper on Saturday, so I’m very excited to go and see how he does and see the response. We leave first thing in the morning on Sunday. The flight from Amsterdam to London leaves at around 11AM, so it would probably be prudent to be out of the hotel by six.

Also, my column on the Punchbowl website runs every other Thursday, including this week. Two weeks ago, I wrote on my academic interests in history. You can check them out at http://www.thepunchbowl.net, and it is also linked to the right.

A Day in Maastricht

I spent the day mostly in the southern part of the old city of Maastricht. I walked out of the hotel and walked east past the train station at which I had arrived, past the convention center where my father’s meetings were, and directly to the Maas River. The hotel offered an excellent map.

A bit more on local history: according to their tourism literature, Maastricht was originally a river crossing. The Romans recognized the strategic importance of the site, and fortified the area around 50 BCE. Until the 8^th century, it was a bishopric of the Catholic Church, and during the Middle Ages, the city grew rich on the textile trade.

The city is associated with the idea of a unified Europe, due to the Treaty of Maastricht. They are proud of the multiculturalism of the city. They cite a strong influence from Burgundy. In my walk around, I heard significant amounts of Dutch, English, German, and French.

Where I reached the river, there was a nice park around the provincial government buildings. Maastricht is the provincial capital of Limburg:

Provinciehuis Limburg


Maas River

Mt. Sint Pieter, south of the city

I continued north on a beautiful walk by the river and crossed the hoge brug, a modern footbridge just south of the city center. I then entered the old city at the Jerker Tower, which is part of a fortification that was built from the 16^th to 18^th centuries:

Jerker Tower

Inside, the old city is absolutely picturesque. It is built around squares and churches, the shopping district is interesting, and most of the streets are used only by pedestrians.

I spent most of the time just wandering around this area. I climbed the tower of the Church and Tower of Sint Jan. It was a very long and narrow spiraling staircase up to some amazing views of the city:

Tower of Sint Jan's

view from the Tower

I also saw the city government building and the fun shops in the surrounding area:

Stadhuis

I walked back across the river at the much older Sint Servaasbrug, a site that was originally bridged in the 13^th century. I wandered a bit in a newer area called Wyck and then wandered back across the A2 highway and south paste the technical college, back to the hotel.

I went to dinner with my father at a little restaurant on the Vrijthof, the main square near Sint Servaas and Sint Jan. Mussels were very popular; everyone around was eating them—they were excellent. There also seems to be a fondness for sauces; mayonnaise, garlic sauce, and mustard available with everything, and the menu offered many others.

My sleep schedule finally seems to be sort of falling into place.

Today, my father gets out of meetings a little after noon, so we’re hoping to spend the afternoon riding bikes. The area around here is perfectly flat. Also, the city is full of bicycles and scooters. They always get their own lane, set apart by red pavement, and their own crosswalks. We plan to take a brief ride to the next town along the Maas River, Eijsden.

Amsterdam to Maastricht

Gatwick was the worst airport I’ve ever been in. Amsterdam’s Schiphol is by far the best.

Flying in was gorgeous. I have never been to Europe at all before; the scenery over East Anglia, the North Sea with its tiny tankers, and the perfectly flat and orderly farmland on the coast of the Netherlands were all absolutely picturesque. Customs at Schiphol were five minutes, there was ample luggage carousel space, and the entire airport was spotlessly clean.

Everything was primarily in English, so finding my way about was easy.

The only difficulty was with the trains, which were much more Dutch-oriented. I managed to get my ticket, but finding what platforms to use was slightly more complicated. But the trains were absolutely on time, and once I figured out how to read the boards, it wasn’t a problem.

I changed trains in Utrecht and Maastricht Central, and I was finally dumped off at Maastricht Randewyck at about 22:15 local time. I wandered around until I found a street that was on the map to the hotel and managed to get to bed at midnight.

My father is at his conference all day, so I plan to take the rest of the morning and the afternoon to just wander around Maastricht. From what I understand, it is primarily a university town, but it is very old and well-preserved from medieval times.

London to Amsterdam

So after we arrive in London at about 9:20 local time. Luggage check-in for my easyJet flight closed at 9:50, so making that was really outside the realm of possibility.

Perhaps my description of Gatwick Airport in London would really be most concisely expressed in two categories: “waiting in line” and “copious puddles of blood.” In brief summary, Gatwick is a terrible airport and my time there was alternately frustrating and horrifying.

Firstly, there was a tremendously lengthy walk from the gate to the line for customs. I was literally speed walking for about twenty minutes. They have not yet invented the people mover. Then came the lines.

First, I stood in line at customs. I stood in this line for about an hour and fifteen minutes. It was moving at a reasonable speed, but it was about the longest line I’ve ever stood in. It’s only advantage in terms of entertainment were the steady supply of people walking down the line, realizing they’d have to be in it, and watching their horrified reactions.

The first order of business was to get my bags. I had to stand in line with a couple hundred people to see a tiny pair of monitors to tell me which luggage carousel to go to. There were five or six flights worth of baggage coming to one small carousel, and it was packed several people deep along all sides. There were people standing atop luggage to see over other people to get the rest of their things. This wasn’t a line; it was more competitive. A lot of jockeying for position, but I eventually got my stuff.

Next, I stood in line to see the monitors to tell me where the easyJet desk was, so I could tell them I missed my flight. Sea-Tac is extremely well-designed in that the airport counters stretch a very long way in a single line. At Gatwick, they’re in oddly shaped clumps around several cramped rooms and the lines run into each other at odd angles. This easyJet line was about half an hour. They were able to switch me to a later flight to Amsterdam at a reasonable price. Also, they told me where I could go to left luggage to store my other bag.

There was NO LINE at left luggage. This was the highlight of my time at Gatwick.

The next line I stood in was to check my hiking backpack to Amsterdam. They don’t do this at the airline desk like in Seattle; there’s a separate line for luggage check-in. This line was ridiculously slow and ultimately UNECESSARY. Apparently, they don’t do backpacks there, so they sent me to ANOTHER line for outsized luggage.

Then I had a sandwich.

Security was another hour and a half of waiting in line. Considering that we weren’t in the United States, it was ridiculous. A wonderfully entertaining British couple was behind me. They told me that this wasn’t typical, however.

At Gatwick, gates for planes aren’t announced until the plane arrives at the gate. As a result, dozens of people are forced to stand under monitors as “please wait” flashes next to their flight. Mine to Amsterdam was supposed to board at 14:35 (those crazy Europeans and their 14-o-clocks!) but this came and went as “please wait” continued to flash next to it. The airport staff just told us to be patient. I was inured to lines at this point, but some Hollander got pissed and started complaining loudly in Dutch. It was awesome.

So finally, the gate number went up and a huge crowd of us had to get to the other side of the airport. Thankfully, this area had people movers, so we were able to get there rather quickly.

However, in one of the walkways between people movers were several concerned and gloved custodians, who were cleaning up puddles and footprints of what was unmistakably blood. We all looked at each other nervously.

Well, the flight out was a half hour late (of course.) I arrived in Amsterdam at 5:20 local time, having planned to have been there about six hours earlier.

Seattle to London

Note: I was halfway through writing this entry when a cleaner from the hotel walked in to see me hunched over my computer in the corner wearing a tshirt and undershorts. She seemed embarrassed and said she will be back in a few hours.

For reading ease, I have broken up my trip into three entries.

In my first entry, I made the travel itinerary sound extremely simple. It was a lie. “The best schemes of mice and men,” claimed Robert Burns, “gang aft agley.” Or something like that. And my plans weren’t even very best laid. They made a lot of lofty assumptions about the reliability of airline times, how long it would take to do things, and my own abilities to think logically and quickly.

The first leg went very well. Left for the airport on time, got there on time, had a very pleasant flight out to Newark, and found the gate for my connection very quickly. So far, so good.

But when I realized that there was no plane at that gate as the time to board came and went, and the time to leave came and went, I started to read over my plans again. I realized that I had given myself really less than two hours to do the following:

1. Go through customs

2. Get my bags. Since this flight to London was a round-trip, the second half of which I will take next June, I made completely separate bookings with easyJet to get to Amsterdam.

3. Store one of my bags at left luggage. I didn’t want to haul two huge bags for a one-week trip to Maastricht, so I stored one at the airport

4. Check my other bag with easyJet

5. And get out of there

The flight out of Newark was not fun. It left about an hour and a half late and sat on the tarmac for about another forty-five minutes waiting in line to take off. As we were waiting, a girl asked me me to switch seats with her so she could sit next to her friend. No problem, I thought. A couple minutes after I settle into my new seat, the lady next to me starts being sick. Before we were even on the runway.

If you know me, I have probably talked with you about my opinions on vomiting. To make a long rant short, I don’t believe in it, I think it’s unnecessary, and it completely freaks me out. I think it’s one of the least pleasant things in the entire universe.

We are talking, here, about a seven hour flight and the lady next to me started puking about negative fifteen minutes into it. She was mumbling about something she ate not agreeing with her, and asking me to pass her extra bags, and…well, I’m not going to write about it anymore. It’s just to upsetting. She was ultimately alright, and I survived, too.