My flights frequently place me between two boom bobbas and thunder thighs, and in front of a young child with restless legs syndrome.
When I boarded my flight from San Francisco to Auckland five hours after initially planned, I almost went into apopleptic shock upon shuffling to my seat. My chair was between two men who didn't look like they ate a thirty-pound baby for lunch. Instead, they appeared to have jogged within the last decade. I am not disciplined towards physical exertion, but I don't weight over three hundred pounds. Yet.
As they both flaunted their foreign Kiwi tongues, I comprehended one-sixth of their words. I craftily construed that they were Army intel guys. They repeatedly referred to it. My grasp at their language hastily fled after I had two wine refills at dinner.
Twenty-Something streaked a smile across his face and got us beer. Four times. After the wine and beer consumption, the native-English speakers may as well have been communicating in Codswallop, Kara's fictitious/secret drunken form of verbal intercourse.
The only conversation I clearly recall concerned Kiwi pre-flight videos. Air New Zealand stewards and stewardesses conduct the pre-flight video nude. Their bodies are painted as if they wore uniformed clothing.
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