It’s not that often that things happen to me that I consider interesting enough to share with many people at once. When they do happen to me, they involve airplanes.
A huge reason I go on so many random trips is that I love flying. Like, I am pretty sure I’d be happy flying every single day (don’t you DARE suggest I become a flight attendant. Don’t you DARE). I compulsively look up flights all the time, and I have a Rain Man-esque knowledge of which airlines fly where and which aircraft they use and what services they offer. This knowledge affords me LOTS of sexual encounters, in case you were wondering.
Now, the reason all my share-worthy stories involve airplanes is that in spite of my unshakable love of flight, I seem to be a proverbial “shit magnet” when it comes to air travel. Practically every time I do it, some kind of “travel nightmare” occurs, both self inflicted (being “pretty sure” my flight is at 1pm when it’s really at 11am) and not (having to make an emergency landing because someone was having a heart attack - this has happened to me more than once!!).
Anyway, this Morocco trip was doomed from the start.