The following is a first-hand account and was written throughout the entirety of an hour long flight from Munich to Zagreb.
The belly of the plane swallowed up the last of the luggage. Standing in the crisp winter air, waiting in a queue to board, I observed the gas tanks being refilled, the airport taxis bustling around and the chorus of several different languages surrounding me and echoing in my unilingual ears. I grip the cold steel of the hand railing, and the soft leather of my carry on bag in the other, I mount the steps leading up to the entrance of the small Dash 8. The slow moving shuffle through the plane begins, and I’m sitting at the back as usual, so I have to wait for everyone else to stow their luggage and jackets. I finally reach my destination, a small brown leather seat in row 20. I occupy myself by rearranging my carry on and sifting through the apps on my phone. I already feel claustrophobic in this tiny aircraft, and the stuffy plane air isn’t helping. Like the vampire I am, I slam the window screen, shielding myself from the bright sun bouncing painfully off the snow and into my eyes. Finally satisfied with the lack of light, I then unsociably shove my earbuds into my ears, preparing for the short journey ahead.
The low, familiar purr of the airplane reassures me, like an old friend. As the engines get louder, the vehicle begins to crawl forward. We turn corner after corner, I lose myself in the comfortable rhythm of the take-off. We turn a final corner and the sound of the engines increases to a deafening crescendo, the plane preparing for its gravity defying leap. We take off. I feel that rush of excitement as we reach maximum speed and then lift off the ground. See you later Germany. Almost immediately the stewardess brings around sandwiches – it’s lunchtime and I’m starving. I wait impatiently for her cart to reach me, and she hands me a packaged chicken and feta bread thing. I quickly unwrap it and take a bite. It tastes like stepping on a wet carpet. Disgusted and disappointed, I replace the sad excuse for a meal in the plastic package. Scanning the nearby trays of the people around me, I see with horror that many of them have already eaten the garbage food. I wait desperately for the drink cart to arrive, awaiting a cup of water to wash down the rancid taste of wet (not soggy, straight up wet) chicken and feta. I’m hungry but I am not eating this.