It's about time we get a deliciously awkward travel story from our backpacker and travel enthusiast, Tanner. (Speaking of delicious: you might not want to be eating while you read this one.)
With Tanner travelling around checking out new cities and exploring what they have to offer, he's jumping into cars, cruising on boats and boarding planes to appreciate the full experience. Sometimes, that experience happens in said car, on said boat, or in said plane. Buckle up for this one, we're hitting some turbulence.
Our story begins, as many fables do, high above the clouds, in the belly of a commercial airliner. Tanner, ever the diligent corporate warrior, had secured himself a coveted window seat – prime real estate for contemplating cloud formations or, more likely, mentally drafting his expense report. Little did he know, his serene airbourne sanctuary was right in the splash zone.
Just before takeoff, a minor seating kerfuffle erupted. A mother and her teenage son, bless their well-meaning hearts, found themselves separated. The son, described by Tanner (post-trauma, it must be said) as a "backwards-hat-wearing wannabe-gangster," was adrift in the row behind. In a gesture of pure, unadulterated human kindness (or perhaps a desperate desire to avoid a whining teenager), the gentleman in the middle seat between the mother (aisle) and Tanner (window) offered to swap, moving to the son’s window seat in the row behind. And thus, the fateful arrangement was struck: Tanner, at the window, suddenly found himself intimately acquainted with the aforementioned teenager, now occupying the middle seat.
Our young co-pilot, it seems, was quite taken with the aerial views. Barely 10 minutes into the flight, the boy began what could only be described as an Olympic sport of window photography. He’d lean forward, pulling out his phone, his arm arcing perilously close to Tanner’s face, attempting to capture the fleeting majesty of cumulus clouds through the window. Tanner, a man of quiet fortitude, endured. He probably muttered something about personal space under his breath, but being the consummate professional, he refrained from direct confrontation. After all, who wants to start a mid-air tiff over a Snapchat story?
Then, the squirming began.
Tanner, ever observant, noted the subtle shifts in the boy’s posture. A little fidget here, a slight clench there. It was almost imperceptible at first, like the early tremors before a major seismic event. A seasoned traveler knows these portents. He might have even thought, "Hmm, restless kid." He did not, however, think, "Impending biohazard."
Moments later, the dam broke. Or rather, the stomach emptied. Without warning, and with a rather alarming lack of decorum, the backwards-hat-wearing wannabe-gangster commenced a truly epic expulsion of his pre-flight meal. Not into a bag, mind you, but directly, squarely, and voluminously between his legs, covering a significant portion of the plane’s floor. It was, by all accounts, a veritable Niagara Falls of nausea.
And here, dear Buff buddy, is where Tanner’s misfortune truly blossomed: the puke spatter, an unfortunate consequence of the sheer volume and velocity, reached his pristine shoe. And, horrifyingly, his leg.
The mother, reacting with the speed of a seasoned first responder who’s clearly seen this rodeo before, valiantly yanked an air sickness bag from the seat pocket. But the damage, as they say, was irrevocably done. Tanner, trapped by the window, suddenly found himself with, let’s not mince words, spew spatter dripping down his calf.
The response from the flight crew was immediate and, frankly, theatrical. Multiple flight attendants, not just one, converged upon the scene, as if a major cabin pressure leak had occurred, rather than a single, albeit substantial, act of regurgitation. Tanner, caught in the crossfire of chaos and bile, tried his utmost to become one with the seat fabric. He attempted to gingerly, subtly, almost magically, not draw attention to the fact that he was rapidly transforming into a human canvas for someone else’s digestive distress. He probably imagined himself a perfectly normal man, just sitting there, not at all covered in… that.
But dignity, much like a good Wi-Fi signal at 30,000 feet, is often fleeting. After several excruciating minutes of the young man continuing his unscheduled contributions to the plane’s upholstery (yes, for several minutes, can you imagine the scent?), Tanner’s patience, thin as a business class napkin, finally snapped. He was, to put it mildly, a victim. A very, very sticky victim. The flight crew, perhaps noticing Tanner’s increasingly green complexion (and not from airsickness, one presumes), finally ushered the boy to the washroom for further "transactions," as it were.
The moment of reckoning arrived. Tanner, grimacing, peeled off his now-compromised shoes. And then, in a move that spoke volumes about his desperation, he hoisted himself over the seats to reach the aisle, his soiled footwear clutched in his hand like a grotesque trophy. His pilgrimage to the back washroom, shoes held aloft, was observed by passengers in the rows behind, who had, by this point, deduced that something was amiss. Whispers rippled through the cabin: "Someone was sick." "Oh, the poor soul."
As Tanner, a man now bearing the distinct aroma of bile and desperation, strode past, clutching his unspeakable shoes, a collective assumption solidified. He was the one. He was the sick passenger. The looks of pity, bordering on revulsion, were palpable.
He was promptly handed a handful of moist napkins and an industrial-strength face mask, with the instruction that he could "clean his shoes in the bathroom." The indignity! The sheer, unadulterated injustice!
Tanner, a man clearly at the end of his tether, demanded a new seat. And a new seat he got! Ten rows back. Another window seat, curiously. This time, his new companions were a woman and her daughter. And wouldn't you know it, they had heard the whispers. They looked at Tanner, then at his still-damp-looking shorts, then back at Tanner, and their expressions practically screamed, "Ah, yes, you’re the one who made that awful mess," instead, offering him a polite, "Hope you're OK."
Tanner, now a man on a mission to reclaim his dignity (and his reputation), vehemently insisted it wasn’t him. He was merely, he explained, "in the splash zone." The woman and her daughter, smiling as they were, maintained a placid skepticism. It was clear they didn’t quite believe him. And so, for the remainder of the four-hour flight, Tanner, usually a man of reserved conversation (he's the first one putting on headphones when we fly with him), transformed into a relentless raconteur.
He talked about the flight, how comfortable he was, how absolutely not ill he felt, how flying never bothered him, how he's paid to travel for his job, how he could quite happily do a dozen more four-hour flights right then and there. He regaled them with anecdotes of robust health and strong stomachs, all in a desperate, valiant attempt to convince them he was merely an unfortunate bystander, not the in-flight hurler.
Even upon landing, as the wheels kissed the tarmac and the seatbelt signs blinked off, Tanner still harbored the distinct impression that his new seatmates remained unconvinced. He probably walked off that plane with an almost imperceptible lean to avoid any residual spatter, and a faint, phantom smell of regret following him.
What angered Tanner the most about the experience -- aside from looking like a plane puker -- was the lack of regard from the flight crew. Sure, he wasn't the one sick but he certainly was affected by the actions of another passenger. Initially, he asked if a flight attendant would clean his shoes so he could remain at his seat to enjoy (what he could) of the flight. Nope. Upon landing, he inquired at the customer service desk to seek compensation for replacement shoes. (They were $40 at most.) After all, isn't an airline responsible for your comfort, safety and belongings on its flight? Nope. How about a travel voucher -- say, $50 off his next booking? Nope.
Recounting the story to us when he got back to West Hollywood, Tanner said he should've made a scene on the flight so he could've at least gone viral from onlookers' videos and get some exposure and free advertising as a Buff Boy to drive traffic to our products. Shockingly, the bosses didn't agree.
We've advised TanTan to pack a plastic rain poncho in his carry-on next time.
