When I am in Europe, I expect tobacco (and in Amsterdam, marijuana) smoke and, less so than previously but still, a certain amount of body odor. Getting there was something else. I landed in Detroit and had just enough time before my flight to track down some TCBY. I ate that on the gangway, and moving along the gangway took that much time even though I was in the back of the plane and shouldn't've had zillions of people ahead of me. I was in my seat, earplugs in, suitcase stowed, book to hand, and an attendant announced they were about to close the doors when a last passenger dashed onto the plane. As he side-stepped along the aisle, I decided he must be my window-seat-mate. He looked like Tommy Chong, whose character on "That '70s Show" cracks me up, so that was fine. Looking like Tommy Chong leads, as I should have realized before his closing the distance between us made evident, to smelling like Tommy Chong too. The man reeked of tobacco in a way I am accustomed to the unwashed homeless reeking. I didn't sit back down but fled to the service area to ask to be reseated. While one attendant looked, another attendant arrived me and asked what I was doing. I told him, and he knew immediately: "Oh, you were in 43B?" So it's not just that I am a wilting flower but that passenger was an Airborne Toxic Event.
I am pretty sure that sitting next to Mr. Bhopal 1984 would have been worse than sitting immediately behind the cryingest toddler ever, the sort who would, having wound down, realized he had wound down and so wind back up again. My earplugs are not as effective as I could wish. Neither was the melatonin. I know I slept some, because I had a crazy dream involving Jessie and flying kites, but not much. I recited, like Proginoskes and the stars, countries and capitals. Once I didn't even finish South America before I was asleep.