21 Jan My Flight and Other Sob Stories

My friend Beth told me she cries on planes. ‘Cries’ may not even be the correct word. Sobs would probably be more fitting; full-frontal, unapologetic convulsions of tears. She painted this horror-filled image of her red-eyed and snotty, leaning into fellow passengers for moral support, as well as for their dry, absorbent clothes to soak up some of the fluids gushing from various outlets on her face. Apparently, people fall into the aisles, scrambling to get away from the wails and hiccupped sobs that erupt out of her slight frame. Those were her parting words to me the day before I left on an eleven and half hour flight from London to San Francisco; having got that off her chest she seemed fairly chipper, so smiled and hugged me on my front porch, wishing me safe travels.

The concept of flying has never bothered me as much as the logistics of it. The prospect of plunging from thirty-nine-thousand-feet always seemed considerably less horrific than safely landing from thirty-nine-thousand feet and getting stopped at customs with none of the correct luggage in tow. Flying to San Francisco was no different to any other flight I had taken in my life in that respect. However, I was to learn the luggage allowance was not particularly accommodating of nineteen-year old girls of whom were packing up their entire lives to move across the globe for the next six months. The 6am re-packing of my entire life into two separate suitcases, because of said luggage allowances and trivialities such as ‘Severe Handling Hazards’ did not bode well for the trip ahead. By the time we made it to check-in my mother and I were pretending my step-father was not having a small meltdown, and had not opened both my enormous suitcases at the desk. He was apparently trying to ‘pack and reshuffle for the weight distribution’, by moving around my toiletries and airing my dirty laundry for the whole of Heathrow Airport, literally and figuratively. It was at this point I turned to the desk clerk and asked about cancelling the return flight.

Before we say goodbye at Airport Security my mother takes me round a drugstore, insisting I may need necessities like laxatives, gummy bears and lavender body mist in an effort to make me feel less daunted by the fact that I do not have admittedly less important things lined up in San Francisco. Things like a room, a bed or any idea what I am doing. Who needs those things when you smell like lavender? I keep chanting this in my head as my mum and I say goodbye at security, as I brush my hair in the airport toilets, on the transport to my gate, even as I buckle myself into my seat. The elderly woman in the seat next to me is polite enough not to look at me like I am completely insane, or request a seat transfer.

I bet she wishes she had requested that transfer by the time we take off and I am channeling my inner Beth. There is no horrendous bawling or messy, teary convulsions. I am trying not to be that clichéd girl – who stares out the window, sad song on loop, lone tear slipping out, questioning her entire existence – and failing. The only difference being that it is not a lone tear, it is these pathetic mewling sounds and snotty sniffles as I try not to go into full-out Beth mode. I eventually pass out much to everyone’s relief, especially mine, and the rest of the flight is uneventful.

We land, the tears have dried, and I have stress-eaten the entire bag of gummy bears I told my mother I didn’t want or need. I find myself grateful for the fact that I landed in the afternoon when the sun was still shining, and much like Beth a lot more sprightly having got the sobbing out of the way. So I turn to the woman who has shared this journey, emotional and otherwise with me, smile and wish her safe travels.