21 JUL 2015
Bubble guts and hot snakes.
I’m writhing on the final leg of a 22 hour journey – there’s a shooting pain in my lower right abdomen. I’m diaphoretic. My calm Okinawan neighbors are probably more than a little concerned… but let’s back up a bit.
Leaving for a 24 month deployment is like leaving for college for the first time… except nobody speaks the same language, you don’t have a working cell phone, you are 8000 miles from everyone you know, and there is no timeline on your return.
The flight to Tokyo, lasting all of fourteen hours was uneventful. My row mates and I had an unspoken solidarity, getting up and using the restroom at the same time, gathering food and supplies when the others were asleep, and suggesting movies like “Ex Machina” or “Gone Girl” to freak eachother out while exchanging topical small talk that didn’t matter and won’t be remembered.
Fast forward 27 hours into the future (wha--?!? Oh yeah I’m now 13 hours into the future, due to the whole earth being round thing) and I’m on the ground. Everyone is staring at the standing, walking, talking advertisement that is me, which screams “I don’t belong here!” I’m at least 8 inches taller than everyone around me (click hyperlinks in this blog to enhance experience!), and if skin color is 50 shades of grey, I’m in the lighter 5 shades.
I gaze at all the poorly translated “clever” t-shirts of the Tokyo natives around me and realize that my shirt is the cleverest. Good.
After a stressful transfer where I asked where to go and was answered in broken English by several helpful locals, I get on the final leg of my journey. The plane is clean to the point of sterility. The stewardesses are friendly and professional to the point where I’m wondering if they have on and off switches and are cyborgs developed from the first Rumbas. Two hours left, 19 hours into my journey, and that’s when I feel it. My body can’t take it. Bubble guts and hotsnakes. My GI system has finally rejected me and has gone on strike, and I need an old priest and a young priest. I “expeditiously” get off the plane, and by that I mean I fucking ran, and find the nearest toilet which has more buttons on it than a Gameboy. I “release the Kraken” so to speak. After several moments, I hear a kindred spirit dealing with similar demons in the next stall. I finish my business, and calmly say “We made it,” to my anonymous stallmate, and we laugh.
We had indeed made it.
Bubble guts and hot snakes.
I’m writhing on the final leg of a 22 hour journey – there’s a shooting pain in my lower right abdomen. I’m diaphoretic. My calm Okinawan neighbors are probably more than a little concerned… but let’s back up a bit.
Leaving for a 24 month deployment is like leaving for college for the first time… except nobody speaks the same language, you don’t have a working cell phone, you are 8000 miles from everyone you know, and there is no timeline on your return.
The flight to Tokyo, lasting all of fourteen hours was uneventful. My row mates and I had an unspoken solidarity, getting up and using the restroom at the same time, gathering food and supplies when the others were asleep, and suggesting movies like “Ex Machina” or “Gone Girl” to freak eachother out while exchanging topical small talk that didn’t matter and won’t be remembered.
Fast forward 27 hours into the future (wha--?!? Oh yeah I’m now 13 hours into the future, due to the whole earth being round thing) and I’m on the ground. Everyone is staring at the standing, walking, talking advertisement that is me, which screams “I don’t belong here!” I’m at least 8 inches taller than everyone around me (click hyperlinks in this blog to enhance experience!), and if skin color is 50 shades of grey, I’m in the lighter 5 shades.
I gaze at all the poorly translated “clever” t-shirts of the Tokyo natives around me and realize that my shirt is the cleverest. Good.
After a stressful transfer where I asked where to go and was answered in broken English by several helpful locals, I get on the final leg of my journey. The plane is clean to the point of sterility. The stewardesses are friendly and professional to the point where I’m wondering if they have on and off switches and are cyborgs developed from the first Rumbas. Two hours left, 19 hours into my journey, and that’s when I feel it. My body can’t take it. Bubble guts and hotsnakes. My GI system has finally rejected me and has gone on strike, and I need an old priest and a young priest. I “expeditiously” get off the plane, and by that I mean I fucking ran, and find the nearest toilet which has more buttons on it than a Gameboy. I “release the Kraken” so to speak. After several moments, I hear a kindred spirit dealing with similar demons in the next stall. I finish my business, and calmly say “We made it,” to my anonymous stallmate, and we laugh.
We had indeed made it.
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