Once upon a trip to Brazil, there was this girl named Jenna. ok that’s for real as far as i can go with that third person stuff. if i ever write a book it’ll definitely be in first person. so i got to Birmingham, which is where my first flight left from, early because being early makes me feel better about life, and clearly people have already been praying because this precious Delta attendant (who i asked for help from because my passport wouldn’t scan for self check-in and was trying to walk toward the door for her dinner hour) got me a seat on an earlier flight. two flights and two hours ahead of mine, and i had an escape door seat and a ghost passenger next to me. it was glorious. well glorious minus the small babes that were, if i had to guess,
weresitting on my headrest about 5 rows behind me. “children cry on airplanes” is certainly a reason on my “why spaghetti is better than procreating” list. either way the pain was minimal and the man on the end of my row volunteered to get my bag for me even though i said it was ok, which i thought was quite kind. especially since as he heaved it into the seat he said, “yeah that’s why i travel light, it’s easier.” bless you kind sir, i meant to tell you it weighs about as much as my checked luggage (which was 54lbs, hey light packer heyy). i didn’t even try to justify it by telling him i was going to be living out of it for four months.
another blessing after i get off the plane, i’m only one concourse up in the airport for my next flight. score! unfortunately, even though it only took me 30sec. on the tram to get there, my gate was at the very end of Concourse T. standing at the top of the escalator i had one of those moments where if i had been in a movie the camera would’ve been focused on sign hanging in a hall and then zoomed back about 5,000 yds to where i was standing, until that sign looked like a fly perched on a wall. “good thing i have 5 hours to trek down there” i thought to myself. and good since my bags felt like i was carrying an elephant cut up into travel-size pieces/a library and enough electronics to entertain the entire airport…oh wait. so here i am, breathing heavy, hoping people think i’m a victim of the weather and my flight was delayed and i just HAD to make it to my connecting flight which just happened to be at the VERY end of that wing of the terminal rather than realize that i’m just an out of shape white girl toting bags that are slowing pulling her shoulders down to a Quasimodo type slump that will inevitably end in her being sprawled out in the middle of the terminal while fashion forward and physically fit Latin Americans gaze sadly upon her as they are walking past. suddenly there was a bright light that blazed through the haze of international judgement; up ahead was a starbucks. as i approached the counter, i literally let my bags slide off my shoulders and into the floor without so much as a second glance; i mean, i didn’t even care that pretty much everyone in there (all 5 of them) judged me as the thud of my bags interrupted their studying… that’s right studying, WHO STUDIES IN AN AIRPORT?! Well apparently posh people. Did i mention that what i originally thought was the Central and South American Terminal actually turned out to be the Central/South America/England Terminal? i want to go to England something fierce, but they are a tad judgmental forreal. anyhow. i eventually made it to where i’m sitting now, in the gate next to mine because the costa-rican travelers were overflowing (you know since i was 5 hours early and whatnot) with the Londoners. (i’m clearly a glutton for punishment.) (also, i’d like to give mom and the UAB School of Dentistry a shout-out for their oral investments)
moral of the story, i’m hip, i’m here, i’m super excited now. thank you to all my friends who texted, called, tweeted, and hugged me before i left. the support i’ve received has been instrumental in God’s creating a calm peace within my mind and spirit. i cannot tell you how much i love each one of you; you make me believe in the importance and power of community and that is invaluable.
 i signed up to get updates for my flights on my phone, i my original flight got delayed 7 times, the last one i saw being for 7:45cst which means it would arrive in ATL at 9:50est for a 10:46est departure.and that’s if there was good flight weather.
 i always wonder about the emergency escape seats. i never mind sitting there, but i just wonder, how do i know when it’s necessary and/or acceptable to pull the hatch and jump? i mean i saw the light on the door flash a couple times when we took off and landed, so does it do that when it’s time to jump too, does the pilot really have that sort of mental dexterity to remember to push the “light flashy” button while trying to maneuver the entire plane out of impending doom? and if i do have to actually push the door open do i jump immediately? do i have to help others first? should i already have my seat floatation device attached when i start pulling? (and are you supposed to use that even if you’re flying over land? no, you say? what if i land in a pond?) and the door says that it weighs approximately 42lbs. just how much force do i need to use to open that do you think, because if i push too hard i’m probably going to fly out with the door before i have adequate time to [accept that i’m about to die] yell “if you’re a bird i’m a bird” (because that seems like the thing to say when you’re flying in the open air). and none of that dear pushy stewardess is on the red card, so no i will not read it.
this is a slight dramatization intended to provide amusement only.
this is my last bout of blatant disregard for reality. promise.
Dear Europeans, i don’t blame you; you’re all so incredibly lassaiz-faire and cool looking, so no, i don’t blame you for not wanting to mingle your awesomeness with that of Americans. (ok, maybe i lied about not being unrealistic anymore. i’ll take this opportunity to explain a little more about who i am to you. i have a euroconscious complex. i always assume that europeans are silently judging me for the simple fact that i could never rock blond hair, leggings and oversized sweaters, or play a musical instrument while painting a masterpiece. am i giving them too much credit? maybe, but i blame the tennis and soccer teams at school for this. they flaunted their ability to make a scarf and tee-shirt compliment bed-head perfectly. plus they have shakespeare and stuff. ok, ok, it’s irrational, but it’s real.)(and if i have to be fair here, they merely judged me with an eyebrow lift and a smile)