This Wasn't My Best Travel Day. But It Wasn't My Worst, Either

There are few things in life more delightful than being unexpectedly upgraded on a transatlantic flight.

Similarly, there are few things less delightful than vomiting into your own bra in the back of a Parisian taxi.

And yet, somehow, I managed to experience both within a mere twelve hours.

"I really saw this going differently," I said to Jessica in the taxi before resting my head on my hand again. She made consoling noises at me.

In my imagination, I would sweep into the City of Light looking effortlessly chic, perhaps with a silk scarf tied casually around my neck. I would glide through the airport, collect my luggage, and arrive at my friend's charming Parisian apartment ready for sixteen days of pastries, museums, champagne, and generally living my best life.

Instead, I arrived smelling vaguely of curried cauliflower soup and gastrointestinal distress (at least in my own mind).

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Trick-or-Treat, British Airways!

I've been a flight attendant. I know what goes into making a long-haul flight happen, and I know how rarely the people doing all that work receive a little unsolicited appreciation. So whenever I fly, I like to bring cards for the flight attendants on the crew.

These are not your average, generic thank-you cards. I hand-write little notes of thanks on custom stationery (hot pink, obviously). Each note is different, and since it's hand-written, there are more than a couple flubs (that's how you know it's not AI, right?). Then I tuck each card in an envelope with a cute promo for my book, and a Starbucks gift card. I write airline-specific superlatives on the front, the kind of humor you have to have worked in aviation to fully appreciate. Things like "Most Likely to Be Late for Pickup" and other affectionate digs at the peculiar dysfunction of airline life. It's like a little 'Choose Your Own Adventure' before you even get the sweet note!

For this flight, I made sixteen different cards, tucked them into a little brown paper bag, and added a generous helping of Halloween candy because it's October. It's a way to say thank you and is the absolute most effort I'm putting into marketing these books.

Jason and I were flying British Airways from Portland to London, connecting onward to Paris. We were booked in premium economy, which was perfectly comfortable for an overnight flight, and I was looking forward to the trip.

As we waited at the gate, I spotted the crew arriving together, rolling their luggage into a little gathering area off to the side. I trotted over with my bag of treats.

"Trick-or-treat! Hi, y'all!"

They looked understandably curious.

"How many cabin crew do you have today?"

"Eleven," someone answered. "And three in the cockpit."

"Oh, the pilots don't matter. We know who's really doing the work around here."

That got a laugh.

Sorry, pilots. You know I love you. But you also know I'm right.

I explained that I'd made a little something for everyone and wanted to give it to them before boarding, when things would inevitably become hectic. Then I handed over the bag and left them to it.

Now, I wasn't expecting anything in return. I never do. I genuinely enjoy making these cards, and I love knowing that a crew might get a little laugh out of them and feel appreciated by at least one passenger before spending ten hours trapped in a pressurized metal tube with several hundred of their closest strangers.

While I was attempting to be subtle and not stare at the crew even though I'm so curious how people react to them, Jason was providing a running commentary.

"Babe. They're taking all the cards out."

A moment later: "They're laying them out on the table."

Then: "They're taking pictures of them!"

Apparently, the crew had spread all sixteen cards across the gate counter and were laughing, reading them aloud, and deciding who deserved which superlative. I could not have been more delighted. It makes me squee when I can surprise and delight my people! I'd already been rewarded with exactly what I wanted: I'd made a bunch of flight attendants laugh before a long night at work.

The Champagne Situation Escalates

When my boarding group was called, I made my way down the jetbridge, ready to settle into my premium economy seat. Which, by the way, on the British Airways 787 is pretty dang posh! Except the cabin manager was waiting for me at the aircraft door.

"I have a special treat for you."

Oh?

"Seat 12A is yours."

For those unfamiliar with British Airways, 12A was a seat in Club World, their long-haul business-class cabin.

And by seat, I mean a fully reclining, lie-flat bed with its own little private space, a big television, a fluffy pillow, a proper comforter, beautiful meals, and enough champagne to make one question whether the laws of gravity still applied. I almost died of happiness for a moment.

But there was a problem. Not a problem problem, but Jason and I had deliberately booked our seats together because we wanted to spend the long flight together. We were about to be separated for three weeks, and we are kind of attached at the hip. It's been over ten years and I'm a smitten kitten with this man. And while I was absolutely thrilled by the offer, I wasn't going to abandon him for the luxury of sleeping horizontally at 38,000 feet. I've had the luxury of lie-flat seats from JFK to Mumbai, and I know those seats will be in my future again.

But I turned down the seat. Which, let's be so for real, is a remarkable amount of loyalty from a woman who has spent a substantial portion of her adult life complaining about airline seats. I thanked the cabin manager profusely and explained that I was traveling with my partner, so I was so appreciative, but I prefer to stay with him. They seemed almost disappointed.

"Are you sure?"

I was sure. Mostly. Back at our seats, Jason looked at me as though I'd just declined a winning lottery ticket.

"Babe. You need to take that seat."

"No, it's fine. I'm staying with you."

"Seriously. Go."

"I'm not leaving you!"

This continued until he had effectively bullied me into reconsidering the finest act of self-sacrifice I'd performed in years. So I scootched past the cluster of boarding passengers, back toward Club World to see whether the offer was still available. One of the lovely flight attendants greeted me, thanked me again for the card, and handed me a glass of champagne.

She disappeared to speak with the cabin manager, then returned wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who knows something wonderful.

"Actually, if you can just stay here for a moment, we might have an even better surprise."

I stayed. I drank my champagne. I minded my business quietly.

And a few minutes later, they told me that they'd managed to upgrade both of us. Jason got 12C. I got 12A. Two luxurious lie-flat seats, side by side. I could have kissed every single member of that crew.

Given what happened later, it's probably best that I didn't.

I Know Her! I Love Her!

The flight was absolutely magnificent. The service was warm, attentive, and genuinely lovely. The food was beautifully presented. The bedding was soft. The seats were comfortable. And then I saw the champagne listed on the menu: Nicolas Feuillatte.

Now, I'm not going to pretend I'm some enormously sophisticated champagne connoisseur. I enjoy champagne the way I enjoy most of life's pleasures: enthusiastically and without a tremendous amount of unnecessary analysis.

But this particular champagne had a special place in my heart because my Creeps and I had enjoyed it at the IDGAF Brunch at Maple & Ash in Chicago. (Look it up, go do it, it's 1000% worth it.) I recognized the name immediately.

"Oh my God! I know her! I LOVE this champagne!"

The flight attendant taking my drink order laughed at my excitement. I miss the days of being able to delight passengers with something I didn't put any effort into, but get to enjoy the benefit of delivering.

We were flying across the Atlantic in enormous comfort, I was drinking excellent champagne. I couldn't imagine how the trip could possibly get any better. Which, in retrospect, should have been my first warning.

Soup? On a Plane?

One of my options for my starter was curried cauliflower soup. Doesn't that sound delicious? I asked Alan, the Cabin Manager, for his suggestion, and it was a delicious soup. A little sophisticated. A little warming. The sort of thing a glamorous international traveler might enjoy before settling into her lie-flat bed for a peaceful night's sleep.

And it was delicious. Unfortunately, any of you with sensitive digestive systems are probably already screaming at your phone.

"MAIGEN. WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?"

An excellent question. I wondered that myself, later. Maybe not at the moment because of all the champagne I had on deck. Also, as I type this I'm realizing I did not mention that Jason and I found the hidden speakeasy at PDX, and I had three cucumber gimlets before going through security. Hold onto that detail.

You probably already see where this is going but no, it gets worse.

Cauliflower is a cruciferous vegetable. Cruciferous vegetables can be notoriously unkind to certain digestive systems. Add curry spices, a pressurized aircraft cabin, and several (cough like six) celebratory glasses of champagne, and you've assembled a rather ambitious experiment in gastrointestinal chemistry that I apparently volunteered to conduct on myself.

I finished my lovely dinner, enjoyed my lovely champagne, reclined my seat into a lovely bed, pulled up my lovely comforter, and drifted off to sleep. For a scant handful of hours

And then, somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, I woke up.

You know that feeling. That sudden, unmistakable realization that something has gone terribly wrong inside your body. I opened my eyes. I felt the rumble in my tummy...the sheen of sweat under my eyes.

Oh, no.

I can hold it together. I know I can hold it together.

Oh, no, no, no.

I could not, in fact, hold it together. My stomach and guts had apparently convened an emergency meeting, voted unanimously to revolt, and neglected to invite the rest of me. I'll spare you the most intimate details, but suffice it to say that my digestive system began attempting to evacuate my body through every available exit. Repeatedly. For the remainder of the flight.

Imagine having one of the most luxurious airline seats you've ever experienced, with a proper mattress, a fluffy pillow, a cozy comforter, and a magnificent entertainment system, only to spend the second half of the journey intimately acquainted with the aircraft lavatory.

I had been gifted the opportunity to sleep horizontally across the Atlantic. Instead, I spent most of the night sitting vertically on a toilet. I used up all of the barf bags in that lavatory.

Oh, the contrast.

And yes, I recognize that food poisoning, a stomach virus, champagne, cauliflower, or some combination of the above might have been responsible. I have no definitive evidence that the soup committed this crime. But if I were assembling a lineup of suspects, that cauliflower would be front and center. Probably standing hand-in-hand with an entire bottle of champagne.

London Calling. Unfortunately.

By the time we landed at Heathrow, I was a shadow of my former champagne-soaked self. I was exhausted, dehydrated, nauseated, and beginning to develop a migraine. Jason, bless him, took charge of the luggage and helped me navigate to my connection. His was on an entirely separate concourse.

I was doing that thing women do when we're clearly not okay but insist we're fine because, technically, we're still ambulatory. My connecting flight to Paris was mercifully short, but British Airways had one final test of my personal resilience: I boarded a completely full aircraft to Paris.

I had a window seat. And it was hot. Not pleasantly warm. Not a little stuffy. Hot. Then the pilots announced that they would need to turn off the air conditioning temporarily. Because when you're already fighting nausea and dehydration, what you really want is to be sealed inside a warm aluminum can surrounded by strangers. And that's when my body decided it was the perfect time for a hot flash.

Perimenopause, ladies and gentlemen. Truly the gift that keeps on giving.

I was frantically peeling off my jacket, trying not to panic, and attempting to breathe through another wave of nausea. The woman beside me looked concerned (not unreasonably so).

"Are you okay?"

There seemed no point in lying. "Nope."

When the flight attendant came by, I quietly asked whether there happened to be an empty seat closer to the lavatory. She looked genuinely sympathetic. Unfortunately, the flight was full, and I was just going to have to sit tight and carry on. Which, if you've ever been violently nauseated in public, you know is an absolutely heroic undertaking.

I had liberated another barf bag from the previous flight and I clutched that little paper bag like a sacred talisman. Somehow, miraculously, I made it through the entire flight without vomiting. A triumph! A total victory! Paris was within reach! Surely the worst was behind me.

Oh, you sweet summer child. This isn't over yet.

Paris, Je T'aime. But Not Like This.

I'm traveling to Paris, and by this point, I'd abandoned any pretense that I could manage the final leg of the journey independently. What a hit my pride has taken from my world-traveling flight attendant days, eh?

"Please just come help me. I don't know what's going on, but I really don't feel well."

She came to my rescue, we collected ourselves and my luggage, and eventually we climbed into a taxi. All I needed was a reasonably comfortable ride to her apartment, a glass of water, and approximately sixteen hours of unconsciousness.

Unfortunately, our driver was one of those people who apparently learned to drive by watching someone operate heavy machinery. You know the type. One foot on the accelerator. One foot on the brake.

Lurch.

Lurch.

STOP.

Lurch.

Lurch.

STOP.

Every few seconds, another violent acceleration followed by an abrupt stop. And traffic was terrible. Absolutely terrible. Our journey took roughly twice as long as it should have. The driver was perfectly kind, and I felt terrible for him because he was clearly miserable about the traffic.

But after about twenty minutes of this particular automotive torture, my stomach began making threats. I reached for my trusty, still-unused, very rumpled airsickness bag. The one I'd so cleverly saved from the previous flight. The one that had been my faithful companion all the way from London. And just as I started trying to open it, disaster struck.

Now, here's something you might not know about me: I am an extraordinarily discreet vomiter. It's an acquired skill. Not one I'm particularly proud of. I don't know whether it's because I spent years working on airplanes, or whether the universe simply decided I needed one unusual superpower, but I can generally vomit with astonishing stealth.

No dramatic retching. No alarming noises. Just a quiet, private moment of personal catastrophe.

Unfortunately, discretion is considerably less useful when you haven't managed to get your vomit bag open.

I caught the first wave in my mouth. Which is a sentence I deeply regret having to write. I'm so sorry. My cheeks puffed out like a deranged chipmunk. I struggled to unfold the bag...and then I lost the battle.

All over my shirt.

Down the front of my chest.

And directly into my bra.

My beautiful Parisian arrival. My sophisticated international adventure. My glamorous sixteen-day European book research trip.

Annnnd I had just vomited into my own cleavage in the back of a taxi.

There are few indignities quite like it. I would also like to take this opportunity to offer a completely unsolicited product endorsement.

I happened to be wearing an OrigamiTech suit by Mm Lafleur, one of those lightweight, travel-friendly tops designed to resist wrinkles and other indignities of life on the road. I swear by these suits. Ladies, I can now personally attest that OrigamiTech fabric is remarkably resistant to vomit.

It wasn't an advertised feature when I bought the suit, but perhaps it should be.

Sixteen Hours Later

By the time we finally reached Jessica's tiny, adorable Parisian apartment (200 square feet), I had reached the limits of human endurance.

I showered. I changed. And I went to bed and slept for approximately sixteen hours. My personal health routine is don't feel good? Sleep. Works a treat.

Sixteen glorious, uninterrupted hours in which I did not have to board an airplane, operate a seat belt, manage a hot flash, contemplate cauliflower, or wonder whether I'd be able to get a paper bag open in time.

When I finally emerged, Jessica had thoughtfully procured bread and water, and I began the slow process of rejoining the living. Eventually, there was soup. A little walking around the charming Parisian neighborhood.

And the extraordinary relief of waking up in one of my favorite cities, knowing I had more than two weeks ahead of me. I was in Paris. I had survived.

And despite everything, I couldn't stop thinking about how delightful that first flight had been. The crew had loved my cards. Jason and I had been granted an incredible upgrade. I'd been treated to delicious food, wonderful service, and a champagne that made me ridiculously happy.

And then I'd spent the better part of the next day wishing I could simply unzip my body and step out of it. Life really does contain some extraordinary contrasts.

I wouldn't have chosen that particular combination, obviously.

But would I trade away the experience of seeing those flight attendants laughing together over their cards? Or the surprise of having both our seats upgraded? Or the memory of that sweet flight attendant arriving with an entire bottle of my favorite champagne?

Not a chance.

Well...I might have skipped the cauliflower.

But Was It My Worst Travel Day?

As unpleasant, humiliating, exhausting, and thoroughly unglamorous as this journey was, it doesn't even earn the title of my worst travel day.

That distinction belongs to a flight I worked home from Guyana.

On that particular adventure, I boarded the aircraft without realizing I'd contracted giardiasis, an intestinal infection caused by a delightful little parasite called Giardia.

If you've never had giardia, I highly recommend keeping it that way.

By the time we were approaching our destination, I was so violently ill that I couldn't leave the lavatory. During landing. Which, as a former flight attendant, I can assure you is not where the Federal Aviation Administration recommends you be seated during that particular phase of flight.

I was so severely dehydrated and weak that I couldn't walk off the airplane under my own power. They had to meet me at the jetbridge with a wheelchair.

But that's a terrible story for another day.