I was heading home from Galveston on a late-night layover in Detroit. That week, hurricanes had whipped up waves in the Gulf and sent strong winds across the East Coast, wreaking havoc on flights. But weather wasn’t why I was stuck at the Delta gate that night. And a delay would be the least of my worries.
As I sat there playing Infinity 8 Ball on my iPhone, straining to hear the gate agent’s status updates through my noise cancelling AirPods, I noticed we had already been delayed an hour. The drive home was only about two hours, and I began to wonder if I should have just rented a car.
I called my girlfriend to let her know I would definitely be getting home late. She’s crazy for me, so she was upset. So crazy, she offered to drive the two hours to Detroit to pick me up. I told her not to worry, I was sure the plane would be leaving soon. I was wrong.
Through the music in my AirPods and the din of the airport, which was at this hour starting to fade, with the Cinnabon and the Hudson News shops drawing down their gates, I heard the agent over the PA. Not only was the crew M.I.A., but the flight was overbooked. Delta dangled a $400 voucher for anyone willing to switch flights—more than enough to cover the cost of that rental car, I thought. But after the day (and night) I just had, the last thing I wanted was to drive two hours home through the dark streets of Detroit. So I passed.
Shortly thereafter they started boarding. Finally, it seemed, this long day of travel was coming to an end. “Up-and-down,” I thought to myself. “This should be a quick flight.”
I found Seat 13B and settled in. I pressed play on my favorite relaxing Spotify playlist (my #1 travel essential), pulled my hooded neck pillow up over my head, and drew it down below my eyes, expecting to be asleep before takeoff. (Sleeping on planes is my super power.)
And then it hit me. Like a boot to the face. I glanced at my seatmate, desperate for confirmation that I wasn’t having an olfactory hallucination. Nothing. No flinch, no grimace—just blissful ignorance. I had never felt so alone. Against my better judgement, I dared a deeper whiff. “What the hell is that!?” I cried internally. The passenger in front of me had apparently been sleeping under a bridge and bathing nightly in dumpster juice and curry.
“Up and down,” I reassured myself. So, I settled back in, pulled my hood tighter over my face, plugged my nose, and breathed through my mouth. I could actually taste it…
And the plane just sat there. Time slowed to a geological pace. We weren’t just delayed. Civilizations rose and fell. Entire species we’ll never know evolved and went extinct. And still, as this human biohazard’s rancid reek permeated my bones, we waited for the crew.
I was about to lose it. The stench had triggered a primal rage. I was looking for a flight attendant, I was going to say something to this guy. Like, “take a f*&king shower, bro!” I started to think of all the stories on Turbulent Times, and wondered if I would make the next Passenger Freakout headline.
And then, the voice of an angel came over the plane’s speakers: “We are offering $800 and a meal voucher for anyone who would like to get off of the plane.“
I launched out of my seat so fast I nearly ripped the armrest off. “ME! I’ll take it!” I yelled, already halfway down the aisle before anyone else could react.
Back at the gate, the Delta agent took my info, I took a deep breath, the $800, a free room, AND a meal voucher. Looked like I was making out!
The hotel? A Howard Johnson. The meal? Valid only at the hotel. A hotel whose sole dining option was a coins-only vending machine… So much for that meal voucher.
I later used that $800 to book a trip to Nicaragua. (Way nicer than Detroit, by the way.)
But that’s another story…
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