Eating at Altitude

Bile rose in my throat as I choked battery acid back into my lungs. Ordering a large black coffee at the airport wasn’t a good idea to begin with, but it was the only thing keeping me vertical after a sleepless night leading up to the 3am departure. I should be excited about the trip of a lifetime looming just a few hours of air time away now, but all I could do was hold my stomach in agony. How much of it was physical churning, and how much could be attributed to the machinations of an unsettled mind? Either way, my inner workings wouldn’t stop spinning.

The complimentary meal service did nothing to improve the situation. Gingerly lifting the foil lid and releasing a foul, putrefying aroma into the stagnant cabin air, I immediately regretted unleashing this beast. Prison food immediately came to mind. A muddy brown, starchy morass oozing over swollen grains of rice enveloped a handful of token anonymous vegetables, steamed so aggressively that they dissolved on the fork. If it was in fact edible, I couldn’t summon the appetite to find out. A few cursory pokes was the most enthusiasm I could muster.

Where was the menu revitalization that gets so much press when it comes to air travel innovations? Wasn’t there supposed to be something a least a step above the moldering garbage that landed on my tray table here? Even the omnivores summarily rejected their rubber chickens and congealed lasagna bricks. I’m not asking for a gourmet meal here, but something at least remotely evocative of a recognizable fresh ingredient would be a bounteous gift.

Never travel hungry, never go it alone. Live and learn; if at least half of my carry-on luggage isn’t composed of easy, accessible snacks, I’m headed towards nothing but trouble.

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3 thoughts on “Eating at Altitude

    1. Oh no, that’s dreadful! It’s already hard enough to fly when you’re well, I can only imagine how rough that flight must have been on an upset stomach.

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