Mr. Lyons Aime and Lemon-lime Gatorade

I should have sensed it…the black cloud of travel hovering over my head as I walked through the doors of the NOLA airport. My initial attempts at self-check in failed miserably. No reservation for a Ms. Aimee Lyons. Chicago? Nope. Brussels then? Nada. Uh, Kigali? Sorry, darlin’. Um, awesome. It’s not the most settling feeling to have the gate agent shaking her head as she types frantically into the computer as you are about to embark on a two day journey. But wait…we DO have a reservation for a Mr. Lyons Aime. Score. Now about your luggage. It’s 6 lbs overweight…that will be $50. Eek. Hmmm, maybe this In Touch weekly magazine will lighten my load? After a few futile moments of shuffling around my Tevas and tank tops, the woman says, “It’s alright, baby. Go ahead.” Gotta love NOLA. I get to Chicago uneventfully, carefully planning my last American meal during my three hour layover in the mecca of food options in O’Hare. I settle on a steak sandwich, fries, and a strawberry margarita (with an excessive side order of dill pickles) and spend my remaining time endlessly saying my goodbyes over the telephone.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that airplanes are the only location on the planet that I do NOT suffer from Social Boundary Disorder. Rarely am I awake long enough to engage anyone in meaningful conversation, and if I am, I prefer to catch up on celebrity gossip, listen to music, or dive into a book. Yet, alas, I found myself chatting it up with an adorable newlywed couple from Michigan headed to Ireland for their honeymoon. And time continues to pass…and we wait, and wait…and the pilot comes over the intercom and hour after sitting on the runway, alerting us to some “cargo issues”. Wuh wa. I immediately shift my thoughts to the storage bin of technological equipment I agreed to take to Kigali for Tulane. Is it my fault we are sitting here, resorting luggage? “Sorry folks. We need to taxi back to the next available gate and sort out this cargo issue. Five to seven minutes max.” And that is a direct quote. 2.5 hours later, every person on the jumbo jet has missed their international connection. Glug! I sleep it off, hoping that during my six hour nap we will miraculously make up time due to some forgiving wind patterns and gain back an hour of our lives. I wake up as we land in Brussels. It’s 10:12 am. My flight to Kigali leaves at 10:40.

I’m 44D. This is not my bra size people-this is my seat assignment. I am literally the second to last row in the airplane, and by the time we all deplane, I am sprinting to the gate. I arrive at my terminal only to find another security checkpoint, and am in a line behind 15 people with no fewer than 30 pieces of carry-on luggage, all assuring me they are also on my flight and I can’t go ahead of them in line. They are liars. My bag goes through the x-ray machine. It’s flagged. The very deliberate and delicate Belgian man starts removing every item out of my backpack, inquiring innocently about each and every object. And what is this? That is 3 months worth of tampons that I would appreciate you returning to their rightful place. And this? My Gatorade powder mix. Anyone who has done any travel in a developing country understands the essential nature of Gatorade. It serves numerous functions: curing horrible hangovers on account of cheap, locally made brews and liquors; rehydration nation after days of traveler’s diarrhea. It’s no joke…and it’s a necessity. I’d rather lose a finger than give up my Gatorade. I grow impatient, muttering, “Seriously, dude? My plane leaves in like 3.5 seconds.” Very culturally appropriate. He allows me to go and I sprint down the ramp to the gate door, only to have a Belgian woman radio over her walkie talkie, shake her head, and apologize that I am too late to board. I look longingly at my plane that sits at the gate and walk away defeated and depressed. To be fair, it was literally 10:38.

Next flight to Kigali? Saturday morning. It is Thursday at 11am. Poop. Sooo, I accept that I am now in Brussels for two unexpected days, a European vacation of incredible circumstance yet welcomed at the same time. I meet a few other Africa-bound late-comers, and we spend the next two days gallivanting around Brussels like regular old tourists: Belgian draft beer, french fries, cobblestone streets, cathedrals, chocolates. Maybe I could get an internship here? It’s been a while since I had been to Europe. I had forgotten how wonderful it is…the outside cafes, the laissez-faire attitudes, the style, the romance. It was no irony that I went to see live music last night, only to discover an incredible African band that tore the roof off the café. I’m anxious to get to Kigali, but grateful that I was able to have a taste of Europe before returning to the continent of my dreams…

Hopefully the next time you hear from me, I will have successfully arrived in Rwanda, and will be eating french fries and drinking draft beer on the streets of Kigali.