The Flight

I slept for a total of less than two hours while en route, all in one to three minute increments. A brush on the arm as someone passed through the narrow aisles of the plane, an indiscernible announcement from the pilot, a child’s cry at the boredom of behaving him or her self, tingly buns from having been seated for so long in only one possible position, and my own puddle of drool were all culprits in the conspiracy to keep me from sleep. At one point the poor flight attendant tried to buckle my seatbelt for me and I jumped about a mile smacking him in the chest and then laughing hysterically.

The plane food, however distasteful you think it to be, was decent enough. Perhaps my anticipation of what will be served in Uganda prompted a bit more appreciation for the pasta shells swimming in something green, or the scoop of slime sitting next to what I believe was stuffing. The real problem was trying to eat said meals while the person in front of me reclined to the fullest possible extent, while balancing the pillow and blanket provided for the sleep I would not get, and while trying to keep the remote for the movies from changing settings as the various accoutrements pressed its numerous buttons willie nillie.