I’m writing this as we are descending into Heathrow. Local time is 9 a.m., but my poor brain and tired eyes think it is 3 a.m., which means I’ve been awake for 20 hours and probably have another 12 before I can go to bed.
Unlike the last four times I’ve flown overseas, I didn’t have enough points to upgrade to Business Class, so I’m sitting in United’s “Premier” Economy. We have a few extra inches of knee space, but that’s the only difference. I’m very glad I had a lovely dinner of Crab Cakes served over chilled crawfish at Pappadeaux Restaurant in the Houston airport, because the coach class meal was just short of disgusting. Billed as “pasta and meatballs” it was overcooked ziti pasta, an orange-colored sauce, and dice-sized cubes of something brown that looked almost, but not quite, entirely unlike meatballs.
The proffered breakfast was a cold croissant and four bits of melon. Why happened to fresh bananas, yogurt, cereal? For this much money, you can’t offer a $2 breakfast? I’m stuck with United for now, though.
I had brought trail mix, so I was good to go. I has an empty seat beside me, so plenty of room to spread out. However, there is a man behind me that has not stopped coughing since we took off nine hours ago, I’m not exaggerating, he has not stopped for more than three minutes. And not just coughing. He is hacking up his lungs and maybe his spleen. I’m not a germaphobe but I keep imagining clouds of lethal virus, previously unknown to man and virulent, hovering around these rows. I’ve read books and seen movies. If you don’t hear from me within two days, call the CDC and break out the Hazmat suits.
- Flying to London (twodifferentgirls.com)
- Scared of flying? You will be after watching this Heathrow time-lapse… (itsnicethat.com)