March 13, 2017:

"Welcome to the fun bus!", says chipper five-foot flight attendant as we duck through the cabin door. "Ha!", replies Mark, both amused and extremely dubious.

Smell of alcohol. Pudgy Scraggleface Millennial in 10E reeks of vodka, and we haven't yet pushed back. I'm tired and cranky and convinced he'll hurl, probably on my jacket, soon as we bank into our first turn.

Flaccid grandma with powder-caked cheeks slams herself into the aisle seat, rocking the entire row and jostling my unsettled, fatigued, disoriented stomach. Maybe it'll be me who hurls. Ironic, that.