The Nina, the Pinta, and the Lufthansa

So here I’m sitting (actually, that’s a lie; I’m writing this after the fact, but go with my stream of consciousness- it just makes this easier for me to rehash) on the airplane from Atlanta to Frankfurt. Bored, I’m listening to Billy Joel to make myself feel cooler; nothing like associating myself with lame people to feel better, eh? And, honestly, I really can’t hold this against ol’ Bill, I just need a pick-me-up. Anyway, this flight is awful so far, and I’m getting the message that this whole thing may have been a mistake. The guy sitting next to me is an Indian who smells like he soiled himself and he won’t shut up, despite the fact that his English is awful, a problem which is compounded by the fact that his breath smells like burnt hair. In front of me is some jackass who feels like he has to recline his seat at 7:30 PM (early to bed, early to go shove it, you jerk- you’re on a friggin’ airplane, for Chrissake). Behind me is a group of German teenage girls who are squawking on and on about fairly shallow, teenage topics as if no one on a Lufthansa flight speaks German. Pretty soon I notice that the one directly behind me has put her sockfeet up on my armrests, but I don’t say anything; rationalizing that I’ve only got, what, like…6 HOURS TO GO!?!
Now, I’m not superstitious really; I think the Powers that be have better things to do with their omnipotence than to screw with people just trying to survive, but the relative horror with which I’m now faced for the next 360 minutes is making me question that belief. Franticly, I begin searching for the signs I need- the signs that’ll look me in the face and say, “John, cut the shit, this trip is gonna be totally sweet.” You know the ones I’m talking about. Maybe the stewardess will screw up and give me two packs of pretzels, or the in-flight movie will be “Juwanna Mann,” or maybe the plane will go into a tailspin just outside of Frankfurt and the pilot will have a heart attack and I’ll jump in and save the day ‘cause I’m super-badass. Something like that. But I’m getting nada. I know that pretty soon I’m going to be watching “Bio-Dome” and wishing I’d never left Athens.
But wait. The drink cart is on it’s way, and, truly, it must be Helen of Troy pushing it. Seriously, Helen of Troy is about to remove the cap from a fresh Warsteiner, just for me. Beer at the expense of nobility; now, that’s service, eh?
But I really can’t speak. Even if I could speak Greek, no words will ever again emit from my mouth as long as she’s here. Helen is not hot; that would be insulting. This woman is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. It’s like Marilyn Monroe took an etiquette course. This face, these eyes, those divine ears are too perfect to be soiled by my harsh and flawed tones. Awestruck, I quietly ask for a beer in German, to which she responds in English and moves on.
Wait. I may not be James Bond or anything, but I certainly did NOT come here for Helen of Troy to respond to my German with English. I do not care if we’re not even past Greenland yet; this is Lufthansa, damn it, and I demand to be fully serviced in a language I do not yet fully grasp. Inconvenience me, goddamnit. I can feel a bulge welling up under me- it’s the manhood that had been missing moments before. In the words of Colonel J.H. Patterson, “I’ll sort this out.”
The Aryan Jennifer Aniston returns to serve me a drink with my dinner, and I’m ready to flip this thing on its head.
Her (in English): “What would you like to drink?”
Me (in German): “You can speak German with me, I’ve got it. Seriously.”
Her (in German): “Sure, sure, how do you know German?”
Me (in German): “I have my ways…”
And the conversation has begun. 5 hours later, I walk off the plane with a name, a phone number, and a promise to be given a tour of Frankfurt by Helen of Troy. In the words of Will Hunting, “How’daya like them apples? I got a numbah.”
Getting my feet wet? I’m swimming laps, babe. It’s going to be one hell of a semester.