So it's time to go!
We load onto the Boeing 747-400 that has ~600 people (never been on a plane that big) and I was like ohmygosh, we're going to Tokyo (we stopped there before continuing onto the Philippines).
So I settle into my middle seat and to my left is a squadmate, Ben, and to my right, an older Japanese gentleman heading home from the Galapagos Islands, I later found out (pretty cool). So we are hunkered in for our 14 hour flight and everyone is getting sucked into all the TV and movie choices, but I was really amped about being able to read on my Kindle. Oh yes, time to read! But my plans were sadly interrupted by the turbulence at hand.
I'm not one to get plane sick, but I was not feeling the best, so I figured it would be best to lay my head down and try to rest for a little bit. Fast forward a few hours and I am feeling much better, I have watched a documentary on garbage at this point, a part of a TED talk, read a little bit of the book Love Does by Bob Goff, talked to Ben for a little, used the restroom and it is dinner time! Holla!
So there is a little menu in the seat pocket and so I glance at my options and it's both in Japanese and English, understandably, so I understood the food options, but I didn't understand a few of the drink options. So, I lean over to my friend on the left, assuming he would know since he could read Japanese and he informs me that Asahi is a type of beer, a very good beer he adds. Grateful the information, I order my water, and perhaps, sparked by our conversation, he orders the beer.
This is when things go downhill. He has a dinner tray, a water, and a beer on his little lap tray and I can just see the terror unfolding in my head, but I said to myself, "Don't be paranoid, it'll be fine."
It was not fine.
Give or take ten minutes and he bumps his lap tray and the beer goes down like humpty dumpty. I react like we are in a slow motion action film and leap out of my seat worsening the problem. The fermented liquid has now manage to not just hit me and my backpack, but across my lap to Ben's pant and hat. It was a hot mess.
He apologizes profusely as we try to scrub our belongings, but let's be honest, those airplane napkins are only going to do so much. So there we are sitting on the plane, World Race missionaries, served with a side of Asahi.
After a while, we relent and accept our new aroma and keep a positive attitude and Ben drifts off to sleep while I make a music playlist. Fast forward a half hour and my dear friend to my left has managed to hit his tray table again, this time sending a stream of water down my leg and onto my seat. At this point, I cannot help my chuckle because this situation is so representative of the Race.
We are going to face so many external circumstances that really suck on paper and can challenge our attitude and we can mope about our one pair of jeans now smelling like a brewery or we can chuckle at the unpredictableness of life. I choose to laugh for the next 11 months.
But believe me when he ordered the tomato juice at our next meal, everything within me screamed, "Oh heck no!"
So moral of the story: Do not order the Japanese beer…and drop it on your neighbor unless it's a World Racer, so she can get a good blog post out of it.
