For those of you who scolded me for staying up for roughly one week, let this serve you as a lesson:
It was the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had.
As soon as I stepped onto the Korean Air aircraft–mind you the most darling air decor and flight attendant wardrobe I have ever seen–I sat down in my window seat, put on my neck pillow, slipped on my eye mask, and the next thing I knew, I wafted the savory aroma of lasagna from the the lanky, greasy man sitting next to me. I looked up at the flight attendant. “How long has it been?” I asked her, groggily. She stared at me blankly. Half an hour later, after much repetition and wrist-pointing, she answered: I had been knocked out for a solid NINE HOURS. Well done. From then on, I slept on and off for the remaining 6 hours, and then, rested, walked gleefully to my next gate, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Miss Chloe–
–who, just 8 minutes before our flight to Phnom Penh, had still not made an appearance. I was beginning to worry. Do I stay in South Korea if she doesn’t show up? Do I take go onto the flight and be a bad friend? Really, I was having a hard time deciding what to do because I had not written down the address of where we were going upon landing in Cambodia, and I knew we would be needing that for immigration purposes. So, my mini panic-attack was purely selfish, and I couldn’t really give a flying at’s rass what happened to that girl. She could be stuck in Kalamazoo for all I cared.
Just moments before the flight was to take off, I saw a tiny little lady donning harem pants, a baggy blue shirt, an equally baggy grey sweater, and a fedora hat, being escorted by a smiling Asian man.
And that Asian man, was Chloe.
Nah, just kidding; the girl in the fedora was Chloe! She made it! Triumph! Victory! We boarded the plane, schemed our way into getting the emergency row, and passed out for the five hours to Phnom Penh.
Here’s the thing: as a citizen of the world, I am in possession of two passports. Here’s the other thing: as the indecisive citizen that I am, I wasn’t sure which passport to use in Cambodia. And here’s the last thing: as the moron that I am, I figured the friendly non-English speaking immigration officers in Phnom Penh would aid in my determining which to use.
I didn’t get in any trouble or anything–everyone calm down–but I was there for a good ten minutes more than Chloe, doing a lot of pointing, slow-talking, and shrugging, to which the immigration officers responded by taking one passport, flipping through it, frowning, taking the other passport, flipping through it, and then sighing. ‘Ventually I just picked one, turned it in, got my Visa, and stepped out of the airport into the refreshing 100 degree Cambodian air. Where a German man, Sebastian, awaited.
(Pizza in the title: merely for alliteration purposes).