The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel. Kat Spitzer

made me intolerable.

      Despite having an innate fear of London airports, I managed to make it without accusing multiple people of sheltering a bomb. I had my suspicions, but I realized I might be wrong about them, so didn’t voice them. I refused to embarrass the group. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I had no more fear whatsoever. I mean, I practically had to disrobe every time I bought something, which was frequently, because of my special travel wallets that I kept under my clothes, and had secret zippers and compartments. It was something special to watch me in a store. Thieves, perpetrators, small children and their pets knew what the girl with the strange bulge at the waist was hiding. I was thick around the middle with travelers’ checks and loose change from various countries. Very chic, and not subtle at all.

      Despite the anxieties, and largely because of the adventures, I ended up leaving Europe just as I had arrived; elated, excited and ready to travel to Europe. Thank goodness it wouldn’t be the last time I would make the trip across the Pond, as we jet-setters like to say.

      Hypochondriac Travel Tip #5

      You can’t see the entire world unless you fly. Medicate if necessary, but get on that plane- it’s totally worth it.

      5

      What Goes Up, Must Come Down

      I’d like to take a minute to discuss methods of travel. I spent my entire childhood taking road trips or cruises, so flying maintained a level of novelty for me for quite some time. After I went to college, though, I was in the air more frequently, since I often had no choice but to fly home. I would post notices on campus ride share boards, but that only worked some of the time. I was twelve hours and three states away from home by automobile. It was inevitable that I would have to fly the friendly skies. I had to suck it up and deal. I couldn’t stay in one place forever. The problem was that, no matter how much time lapsed between flying experiences, I would often have the nerves again of a first timer. I was a flying virgin, over and over again.

      Here was, and often continues to be, my ritual for flying. First, I make the reservation. At that point, I look up what kind of plane I will be flying. If it’s a propeller plane, I cancel the reservation and find an alternative reservation. Now I try to look in advance, to avoid the cancellation and rebooking step. Second, even though the trip may be months away, I fixate on the impending flight. It’s healthy, really, to consider a fireball of death and steel for months on end. Third, I contemplate whether I really need to go to my destination. Should I cancel? Are there other ways of getting there? Inevitably, I always decide that I will go. I may be terrified but I won’t let it hold me back. Fourth, in the days leading up to the flight I have severe intestinal distress that allows me ample time to discover the beauty and wonder of various bathroom facilities. Fifth, the day of the flight, I dry heave, and alternate between not eating or eating fried mozzarella sticks (if I’m going to die a fiery death, I want to enjoy a little fried cheese beforehand). Finally, sixth, I board the plane, grip the arm rests and take shallow breaths while sweating for the entirety of my voyage. I am usually tired and headachy when I arrive at my destination and loaded up on Ginger Ale. If there are bumps in the flight, or a delay for “mechanical difficulties,” all of my symptoms are exponentially greater. The thing is, from the outside, I look relatively normal, if not a little constipated, which, of course, is never the case before a flight.

      I would like to say that I’ve improved with age. And I have. With the help of medication. But that’s only been a recent development. Now I would like to focus on the most memorable flight of all time, which happened fairly early on in my flying experiences.

      I was a junior in college and coming home for the summer. I had put most of my stuff in storage but still had way too much to take on the flight and was about to have to pay extortionate rates to check my additional luggage. I had a kind family behind me who had no carry-ons, took pity on me, and decided to each take a piece of my luggage as their lot so that I wouldn’t have to pay. The snooty ticket agent huffed, “Well they will have to carry those pieces on their own. You can’t help them.” The kind mother agreed, defiantly. What a nice family. I already felt better about the flight, because I had made friends. And they had kids. I always feel better when I see kids and military people on flights. Both groups are so brave when it comes to flying that I automatically breathe easier.

      We took off. The flight was scheduled to last less than two hours. Oh, if only. Here’s a bonus tip for you: Don’t EVER fly into central Florida in the summer time between the hours of four and six p.m. Chances are you will be caught in the middle of a massive electrical storm. The heat and humidity build all day, then burst violently wide open into massive thunderstorms between those hours, which finally subside but then create a sauna-like ambience during the evening that makes my hair super big and pretty.

      On board the plane, as we approached central Florida, the flight started to bounce around a bit. It was approximately forty minutes before our scheduled landing, so we were in the area. The “fasten seat belt light” beeped on. The captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

      “Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seat and buckle up as we are going to hit some turbulence due to storms in the Orlando area.” Great. Terrific. I white-knuckled the arm rests and attempted to take deep breaths, checking to make sure the paper puke bag was available in case I started to hyperventilate.

      The Captain apparently misspoke. There was not “some turbulence.” We started free falling and diving all around, plane flinging side to side, like we were in a maelstrom and had lost complete control. Instead of a large, stable, metal aircraft, we were suddenly as fragile as a thin plastic toy. Some passengers let out little whimpers. Those eventually turned into louder shrieks. Apparently, I was not the only one a teensy bit nervous. In an alarming turn of events, it felt like we landed on the ground in a sort of crash, but immediately bounced back up, an imaginary bungee heaving us back into the sky. We were hitting big pockets of air. Over and over. A woman commenced reciting the Lord’s Prayer out loud, and numerous people cried. The woman next to me grabbed my arm and we linked them together; strangers in sudden solidarity over our impending death.

      The pilot yanked the plane back up higher. The G-forces pressed against our chests. He was unable to break through the angry storm, so he took us back up to clearer air. Then, I guess he turned it over to the co-pilot, or put the plane on autopilot, because the next thing we knew, he was walking into the passenger area to face us. Oh. My. God.

      “Folks, I just want to let you know that I’m doing everything I can up there. Just like you I don’t want to crash. There’s a huge storm in the area, with tornadoes, so we have to be really careful. It’s going to get bumpy, but I’m going to do my absolute best to get you on the ground safely.”

      If I didn’t say it before, I’m saying it now. Oh. My. God. He couldn’t even say that over the loud speaker. He felt like he needed to do a face-to-face. Perhaps storing the images of actual passenger faces into his mind would give him the incentive to soldier through the storm.

      For the next hour, we bounced and smashed and watched out the windows as the wings flexed and looked like they might snap off. More people cried. More people prayed. Strangers held hands. Then, with another crashing sound, we were on the ground. We didn’t realize it at first, just thought we had hit more air. It wasn’t until the plane slowed down that we figured it out and everyone started cheering, clapping and crying with joy. I wish I was exaggerating.

      “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you can see, we’ve landed. But we couldn’t land in Orlando, so we had to be rerouted to Melbourne. We will wait here until the weather clears for safety, then we will get back up in the air and get you to Orlando in about twenty minutes from take-off.” A collective noise of horror rang out among the passengers. Would I ever see my parents again? Did they know what I was going through? I knew they were at the airport waiting for me. What were they being told? This was during a time when you could still meet your family at the gate. They would be there for me when I stepped off the plane. IF I stepped off the plane.

      “Screw this, I’m outta here!” yelled a man, who got up out of his seat, grabbed his bag and headed to the front of the plane.

      “Sir, I’m sorry but I need you to take your