Delta Airlines Flight 210 | Just Visiting

Date published: 12/16/2015. See the zine here.

I'm dizzy. I'm ill. I'm just trying to keep my glass of Chili's Chardonnay down. Maybe it's because I'm obsessing over any distraction from the fact that I'm on a one way flight to Prague. Or maybe it's because this plane definitely smells like sulfur.

I squirm in my aisle seat and make a half-assed attempt to reorganize the magazines I won’t have the clarity of mind to read. Then, through the crowd of hazy, emotionally-defeated travelers, I see a priest.

I don't worry he’ll sit next to me, I know he’ll sit next to me—as a quasi-guilty, Southern atheist, this is my punishment. Soon, a 200-pound, balding, Midwestern man of the cloth is shimmying over me to get to the window. Look busy, act normal...

“Traveling alone?” he asks me.

“Yes, moving to Prague to teach English,” I reply politely. I may not believe in your God, but I believe in manners.

“Wow. You’re very brave."

Please, don't call me brave. I feel like a sham every time I hear it, which has been a lot recently. I sure as hell don't feel brave. The decision to move to eastern Europe in the weeks following my college graduation felt more like postponing reality than embarking on a millennial-esque soul search. I'm running from the cookie cutter life I know I could melt into given enough idle time and desperation. A life filled with unpaid internships, two-for-one happy hours, and finance bros in faded fraternity t-shirts.

My future is a giant question mark and I’m finally letting myself feel every negative thought I filed away in my “handle this later” folder. When the priest put his hand on mine, a move that would completely set me off on a feminist-fueled, personal boundaries rant in any other situation, I totally lose it.

The words start to flow just as fast as the emotions. I’m telling him everything - a very public confessional in row 29. About the break up that shattered my 50 year life plan, the bridges I’ve burned with high school and college friends, the boring, predictable existence in Atlanta I fear is my destiny, and the impulsive decision to move to Prague and deal with all that shit later.

“What’s your name?”
“Samantha.”
“Samantha, will you pray with me?”

Oh no.

I wipe my eyes, suck up my snot, and shoot him a confused look. How dare you. Don’t exploit my state as a call to the cross. My mind races with a dozen reasons to be angry, to feel violated, to switch seats. But the loudest voice of all is the one saying, “Just close your eyes and do it.” So, I bow my head and pray. I don’t know that it makes me feel better, but I don’t know that it makes me feel worse either.