I like to complain, a lot. So much, in fact, that if I got a euro for every time I ranted about something, I'd have enough money to go on a cruise, at least twice a year. Salty is my middle name, so if your food is ever lacking that sodium chloride...
It was alright then; I was but a bean in the placenta, sloshing around and generally just being the freeloader I am today. But once I was forced out into the real world—followed by screams of agony and tears (I'm getting a sense of dejà vû here)—flying became a not-so-fun experience. Travelling is a not-so fun-experience when the vehicle you're using to get from Country A to Country B is a soup can with plastic, duct-taped wings, and the journey consists of getting launched into the air and hoping for the best.
But I guess plummeting to the ground in an enflamed bucket of metal is better than drowning getting mauled by sharks like in the Titanic.
The first time is always exciting (*cough* terrifying). Hell, even I'll admit that I was excited! I'm lying, I don't remember the first time I flew. I told you, I was in the womb, dumbass. But what I do remember is the dozen of times I did after moving out of the vag.
Each and every time is stressful and scary, at least for me. Even though you have a 1 in 7 million chance of dying in a plane crash, the fear is always there. Especially when you know that the only reason you're asked to buckle your seatbelt is because in the event of a disaster, your mutilated body will remain attached to your seat, hence making it easier for investigators to identify you. I have a lot more not-so-fun facts, but—*cue inspirational music*
I believe I can flyyyyyyyyy...
I believe I can touch the skyyyyyy...
I fucking hate flying.
If you haven't gathered that from my little spiel, then there it is; my confession is in bold and adorned with a salty curse word.
The only flight I ever truly enjoyed, was the one I did back in January (2016), when I flew from Canberra to Rome. The journey went like this: Canberra—Melbourne. Melbourne—Doha. Doha—Rome.
"Are you fucking nuts, Dora? That's a 22 hour flight!" you say, staring at me with incredulity written all over your face.
Yes, I know that, Luigi. But it was amazing because I flew in Business Class. You heard that right, bitch, Business Classssssss. I was treated like the queen I am, and it was fucking amazing. I said that already, but I'll say it again: amazing. It takes flying to a whole new level, the moment I got on the plane, I felt like Drake in the song Started From The Bottom. (Fun story: I was actually so excited of having an actual menu to choose from for lunch, that when it came, first I spilled tea all over the table, then, half of my omelette onto the aisle. I swear that in that moment, everyone knew I was an impostor, and that I had never flown in Business class before. I was like that crow posing like a peacock.)
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I started from Economy Class, but now I'm here, in Business Class. I really cannot complain about Qatar Airways, they're a fabulous airline with 5 star service (no I wasn't paid to advertise), and if I had to flying for 22 hours again, I would totally go with them. In Business class, of course. Who are we kidding?
