I’ve been keeping this blog since 2004 to document international travels, most of which have been study abroad programs. If you want to know what 22-year-old me was like, 1) you can dig through the archives, and 2) my writing style hasn’t changed at all.
If you’re a family member of a student on this program, thanks for sharing them with us. We will take good care of them. If you’re a student on this trip and are actually reading this blog, you are about to embark on a journey into the mind of a total weirdo and I hope it doesn’t make you regret your decision to come on this program, to select your major, to attend Westminster, etc.
There’s not much to report re: play-by-play of the trip (yet) other than I did get an extra “random” security check, as per usual (is it “random” if it happens EVERY TIME?) I think it was the party shirt.
Something you should know about me is that I’m a pretty direct communicator, but if there’s one thing that really throws me through a loop, it’s inconveniencing flight attendants. The thought of asking a flight attendant for something (literally their job) is a bridge too far for me.
On top of that, I am mortified—MORTIFIED—when my beloved partner, Cory, asks for all four treats when the flight attendants come around with the cart and ask which (WHICH INDICATES SINGULAR) treat you’d like. We’ve polled many, many flight attendants on “how many treats is appropriate,” and they all say “it’s totally fine,” but OF COURSE THEY HAVE TO SAY THAT and you know in their hearts and minds IT IS NOT FINE and if everyone took all four treats, we would immediately run out of treats. Tragedy of the commons.
You’re still reading? Good on you.
Okay, so why am I sharing this with you? Because I just had a situation and I have no one around to process it with. The stranger sitting next to me seems like a nice enough lad but I can’t burden him with this.
As my parents (hi Mom and Dad) will attest, if I am not fed and watered regularly, I either become a sad sack or a demogorgan. After 40 years of this pattern, I’m pretty good at recognizing early signs of sad-sack-or-demogorgan and can head it off with appropriate feeding and watering.
International flights must be used to having sad sacks and demogorgans on board, because international flights *usually* feed passengers every 15 minutes. Okay, it’s like 45-90 minutes between feedings, but in my previous international flight experiences, getting fed has not been an issue. On this 9 hour flight to CDG, we were fed a decent warm meal about an hour into the flight (~4:30pm MST).
Fast forward to 9PM, and there have been no other meal services. No snack carts, no biscotti cookies. No Mrs-T’s-Bloody-Mary-mix-please-leave-the-can-no-ice. I kept checking the flight menu for a sign—anything—indicating that snacks were imminent. I was ready to buy an overpriced snacklebox. Finally, after some coaxing from Cory, I dug deep and went for it:
It’s now 9:50pm. I’m shaken to my core. But at least I’m fed.
2026 blog off to a **stellar** start.
On top of that, I am mortified—MORTIFIED—when my beloved partner, Cory, asks for all four treats when the flight attendants come around with the cart and ask which (WHICH INDICATES SINGULAR) treat you’d like. We’ve polled many, many flight attendants on “how many treats is appropriate,” and they all say “it’s totally fine,” but OF COURSE THEY HAVE TO SAY THAT and you know in their hearts and minds IT IS NOT FINE and if everyone took all four treats, we would immediately run out of treats. Tragedy of the commons.
You’re still reading? Good on you.
Okay, so why am I sharing this with you? Because I just had a situation and I have no one around to process it with. The stranger sitting next to me seems like a nice enough lad but I can’t burden him with this.
As my parents (hi Mom and Dad) will attest, if I am not fed and watered regularly, I either become a sad sack or a demogorgan. After 40 years of this pattern, I’m pretty good at recognizing early signs of sad-sack-or-demogorgan and can head it off with appropriate feeding and watering.
International flights must be used to having sad sacks and demogorgans on board, because international flights *usually* feed passengers every 15 minutes. Okay, it’s like 45-90 minutes between feedings, but in my previous international flight experiences, getting fed has not been an issue. On this 9 hour flight to CDG, we were fed a decent warm meal about an hour into the flight (~4:30pm MST).
Fast forward to 9PM, and there have been no other meal services. No snack carts, no biscotti cookies. No Mrs-T’s-Bloody-Mary-mix-please-leave-the-can-no-ice. I kept checking the flight menu for a sign—anything—indicating that snacks were imminent. I was ready to buy an overpriced snacklebox. Finally, after some coaxing from Cory, I dug deep and went for it:
It’s now 9:50pm. I’m shaken to my core. But at least I’m fed.
2026 blog off to a **stellar** start.
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