Fear and Loathing in San Jose, part 1
I arrived back from my travels on Friday, but owing to a bastard-strength case of jetlag, an accumulated hangover and an irrational fear of anything approaching work (Livejournal entries involve thinking. That's close enough), I shall be posting my travel journal in separate parts.
You can say what you like about President Bush, but I for one would like to thank him for my being here; by seemingly doing his level best to ensure that nobody wants to visit the US right now, he in fact made this trip possible. KLM, in a desperate bid to fill flights, offered a return to San Francisco for half the usual amount of air miles... of course, I couldn't resist.
On our outbound leg, I was jarred awake by a sudden loud flurry of profanity and the sudden unpleasant realisation that half a planeful of jittery-looking passengers were staring in our direction. A cup of boiling water sat precariously on a seat tray had upended itself neatly over my housemate's groin as the passenger in the seat in front moved. A flight attendant was quick to assist, allowing us to use the curtained staff rest area at the end of the plane for us to take a look at the burn. Sadly it appears she wasn't so swift to tell her colleagues, and one soon got the shock of her life when she popped out for a breather. Whipping back the divider curtain, she found me on my knees in front of kensaro, scrutinising his groin while he stood with his trousers around his ankles. She left twice as fast as she had appeared, looking like the devil himself was after her.
I for one have found scant exception to the stereotype of gay airline stewards, and the one who appeared moments later to peek through the curtains with a knowing smirk wasn't about to buck the trend. Unfortunately (though I'm still trying to fathom who was more embarrassed) I took this glimmer of acknowledgement to assume that the coast was clear to whip the curtains back and return to my seat, disposing of a large wad of sullied paper towels while Kensaro fiddled with his belt and flies. The /entire/ cabin crew blinked back at us both this time, having presumably gathered forces in order to discuss the forcible removal of a couple of apparently randy homosexual Mile High Club wannabes from their rest area. As the paper towels so ominously signified, they were too late to put a stop to whichever unspeakable acts had been committed. I've never seen so many people trying desperately to look in other directions* in my life.
I thought it was far too funny to attempt to explain at this point, and returned to my miniscule seat to grin like a tripping Cheshire Cat for the rest of the flight.
* When you're in the a small plane galley / staff area, that's quite a task.
You can say what you like about President Bush, but I for one would like to thank him for my being here; by seemingly doing his level best to ensure that nobody wants to visit the US right now, he in fact made this trip possible. KLM, in a desperate bid to fill flights, offered a return to San Francisco for half the usual amount of air miles... of course, I couldn't resist.
On our outbound leg, I was jarred awake by a sudden loud flurry of profanity and the sudden unpleasant realisation that half a planeful of jittery-looking passengers were staring in our direction. A cup of boiling water sat precariously on a seat tray had upended itself neatly over my housemate's groin as the passenger in the seat in front moved. A flight attendant was quick to assist, allowing us to use the curtained staff rest area at the end of the plane for us to take a look at the burn. Sadly it appears she wasn't so swift to tell her colleagues, and one soon got the shock of her life when she popped out for a breather. Whipping back the divider curtain, she found me on my knees in front of kensaro, scrutinising his groin while he stood with his trousers around his ankles. She left twice as fast as she had appeared, looking like the devil himself was after her.
I for one have found scant exception to the stereotype of gay airline stewards, and the one who appeared moments later to peek through the curtains with a knowing smirk wasn't about to buck the trend. Unfortunately (though I'm still trying to fathom who was more embarrassed) I took this glimmer of acknowledgement to assume that the coast was clear to whip the curtains back and return to my seat, disposing of a large wad of sullied paper towels while Kensaro fiddled with his belt and flies. The /entire/ cabin crew blinked back at us both this time, having presumably gathered forces in order to discuss the forcible removal of a couple of apparently randy homosexual Mile High Club wannabes from their rest area. As the paper towels so ominously signified, they were too late to put a stop to whichever unspeakable acts had been committed. I've never seen so many people trying desperately to look in other directions* in my life.
I thought it was far too funny to attempt to explain at this point, and returned to my miniscule seat to grin like a tripping Cheshire Cat for the rest of the flight.
* When you're in the a small plane galley / staff area, that's quite a task.