That time Caroline’s worst nightmare came true

Well, one of her worst nightmares (the other three are getting killed by a stabbing maniac, being in a tsunami and having to interact in any way with a ghost). That’s right, kids – this Saturday, while we were coming back from Dublin, some kid in line at the airport PUKED in FRONT OF ME. MULTIPLE TIMES. AT 5AM. Horrified doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I knew he was going to be sick when I looked over at him while we were waiting to check in for our flight and his face was mint green/he was gagging…and the worst part is, his parents didn’t even take him to the bathroom! They simply directed him to aim “over there,” watched him ralph, then mopped it up before moving closer to the desk with their luggage. I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT. Who DOES THAT? Honestly!! Of course, my mother, being even more of a vomit-phobe than I am, if that’s even possible, started to panic and wouldn’t stop talking about him (as in: “Where’s little disgusto now? DISGUSTING. What a disgusting family! And that revolting mother, with her little vest. Are you sure they’re on our flight? Are they really on our flight? Where’s the slob family now?”). I had to listen to this the whole way up to security, as we waited in line, and then again at customs – and it turned out that her fears were warranted, because the little drip puked AGAIN while we were waiting in THAT line, and, once again, his parents just let him froth at the mouth and continue on his not-so-merry way to the desk.

I’m not a religious person, but I was praying to every god I could think of that this grey-faced, violently ill 4 year old wouldn’t be near me on the flight. If he was, I was planning on calling the flight attendant over and telling her that I had a terrible auto-immune disease and if I caught a stomach bug I would drop dead so I would have to be moved. Thankfully, he was ten rows ahead of us and I didn’t have to see him until the baggage pick-up.

Good story, Caroline! Tell it again!

In which Caroline reminisces about Scotland.

I just found my Moleskine from my last year at St. Andrews. The following entries were made on my last full day in Scotland and on the day I moved home to NYC.

Leaving Scotland For Good

Tesco, St. A: An alcoholic in front of me was buying a pack of 10 cigarettes and a bottle of cheap red wine at 1:30pm. Shaking uncontrollably, he said, “My day is getting better by the minute!” as he stuffed the cheap red wine into his little backpack. Talk about DEPRESSING!!

Edinburgh Airport: A boy who looked perfectly ‘normal,’ save for an eyebrow piercing, sat down and pulled out an actual little crystal ball that he proceeded to stand up and do tricks with like he was a member of the Harlem fucking Globetrotters. He was completely unashamed, even when the crystal ball fell loudly to the ground and when a Scottish man in a kilt said, “that was fucking brilliant, mate, but your flight left ages ago!” and his friend laughed. In between practice sessions, the boy sat down and read from what appeared to be a Penguin Classic.

Lack of Shame in Scotland

There are many kids at St. Andrews who are already peripheral members of society and still decide to break out sticks lit on fire at parties on the beach and twirl them while knee-deep in the North Sea. During these fire-twirling sessions, they wear their breathable cargo pants rolled up so they won’t get wet. My questions: where does one practice that skill? And who looks at someone twirling fire in wide-legged cargo pants and decides that they want to be just like that person? Most importantly, why doesn’t this fire twirling ever go awry? Because THAT would be entertaining: “Help me, mate! Me fockin’ favourite trousers are melted to me fockin’ legs! An’ I rolled ’em up an’ everythin’!”

Generally, I’ve noticed that the Scots are weird about the personas they create for themselves. I think it has to do with the question of how you go about individualizing yourself when you live in a completely homogenous, class-based society. Once you’ve aligned yourself with a group over here, you are not changing your mind about it. And if you went with becoming a “goth,” which means you decided to only wear knee-length pleather coats and listen to mainstream rock music from the late 1980s for the rest of your life, then you’d best have┬ádeveloped a thick skin and a nasty attitude – because, well, look at you, for God’s sake. I remember one time when I was going for a drink with some kids that I did Classics with – I’d had a mishap with self-tanner and had an orange face with color concentrated mostly on my upper lip. I looked like hell – like an Oompa Loompa who was in the middle of hormone replacement therapy. So when I showed up at the bar, I said casually, “Don’t judge me – I made a bad choice!” and then laughed. One of the girls, who happened to be wearing neon green mesh arm-warmers and had a lip ring and filthy hair, said to me, “We’re not judgemental,” as she rolled her beady eyes. That about sums up my experience here.

PS: In airport now- I keep seeing a man everywhere who has slicked-back hair and emotionless reptile eyes. Having a slight stress about the likelihood of this flight turning into something like the movie “Red Eye.”

PPS – Now he is sitting across from me on the plane!!!

Ahhh…those were the days. PSYCH!