Well, I promised if I could figure out how to do this airplane internet, I would blog from the air, so here I am. I have never used my webcam and quickplay seems disabled, so I’m just going to give you some photos from my flight to Viet Nam in April.
There is a reason I prefer train travel (actually, there are many) but I’ll save that for another blog. Since I had all these points to use and needed the most time with Kurt during his staycation, here I am, somewhere in the skies over America.
The banana slapping is not quite as ominous as it sounds, but I figured it might entertain for today’s short blog. I left the house this morning with two bananas. Both were rather spotty brown, kind of perfect, really. I ate one on the way to the airport and saved the other for my second flight.
As I carried it to and from the first flight and rushed to connect to my next flight in Atlanta, I got a little sidetracked by my bag and looking at my boarding pass and the banana, held a little too far out from my side as I rummaged, slapped against a very well-dressed lady (coiffed to perfection, actually) at groin level.
I stopped. She stopped. We both turned to look at the banana then locked eyes. I stumbled through a couple “I’m so sorry”‘s while she glared quietly at me. I needed to get to my flight, but felt maybe there was a appropriate apology is for a smack in the crotch with an overripe banana in an international airport.
I started to apologize again. She looked at the offending fruit, back at the offending Marla, pursed her lips and made a little huffing sound. As she headed in the other direction, she brushed her slacks as though some banana peel might remain.
Still tired from my few hours of sleep and morning rush, I didn’t find the humor until at the gate. By then we were boarding and the errant, rotting banana was still with me. I giggled as I awkwardly carried it through the boarding gate, the quickly softening brown smooshing under my license and boarding pass as I held all three out to the attendant. She looked confused, as if I were somehow offering her the brown banana, but wriggled my pass from between my fingers and the fruit, scanned it and I shuffled along.
I now wait patiently as our flight attendant rounds are delayed by turbulence, for the opportunity to tuck it into a garbage bag.
There you have it. The banana slapping in the Atlanta airport, and an idea of me, uncomfortably tucked under a laptop in a fully-packed flight, staring at the browning and adventurous banana.