Ever since I discovered the joy of facial hair, my face has remained adorned with fuzz. My beard and I have traveled the world together, conquering countries and wooing locals. Not only have I cultivated my face hairs above the Arctic Circle, but I have also bronzed my whiskers near the equator. From here on out, my stories are going to be your weekly dose of beard humor. So grab your saddlebags and let’s get on with the first story!
Always Fly with a Full Stomach
I was on my way out of the country for a bit of soul searching; college could wait while I did my thang. This was my chance to get away from everything for a little while (a year), but my first obstacle was paying enough attention to my stomach that I didn’t pass out during the security frisk.
You really have to enjoy the frisks, or else it’s just a grope. Talk to your local TSA agent about frisking awkwardness. My usual method of insta-familial connection is to keep a big smile on my face at all times; it solves 99% of my problems 99% of the time.
Once I was on the plane I was kept meagerly fed. The Oompa Loompa-sized meal was small enough that it didn’t give me anything to poop out, so I didn’t have to climb over the obese Hungarian businessman to my right. Silver linings and such, I’m sure. My hourly ingestion of ginger ale kept me wired so I watched all four movies playing overhead. A mistake, in retrospect, because Dragonball: Evolution was an abomination.
7:30 a.m. arrival in Frankfurt.
I was bleary eyed and starving, so my food choice should have been more carefully considered. The first sustenance I spotted was a drink stand advertising unpronounceable German beer. Now, I was 18, and I had been a good boy before, but here I was, with 20 Euros in my pocket and nothing to stop me from buying a beer.
I walk up to the counter, 125% confident and 75% really stupid, and I bought a single beer. Doesn’t matter what kind, it was cold and tasted like rebellion. I downed the beer in a couple minutes, and then walked to my terminal and got on my next plane. My empty stomach was growling exponentially louder than before the beer. Tray table up, seat belt secured, drinks and peanuts in 15 minutes. Oh well.
In the airspace over Austria the puking was probably audible to the migrating geese outside. Not three minutes after I snarfed those airplane peanuts did my tummy decide evict the tenants. There wasn’t too much food to be thrown up, but the beer and peanuts made quite a team on the way out, splattering my face with bouncing semi-digested peanuts. Yum.
The line outside the lavatory cheered me back into my seat and I received many a hearty backslap from Europeans who already knew how to throw up like champs. I passed out, and then woke up when the plane landed in Vienna. Upon landing, I checked my backpack like a normal human being, the stupidity ebbing from my system. There, sitting serenely in the front pouch was an unopened bag of beef jerky.
Beef jerky in my system and luggage in my hands, I exited the airport with my beard intact and smelling of bathroom soap. It was then time to find my way to a hostel in Bratislava, but that fun stay is a story for another time. Have a good week.
