“Did you order the special meal?” asked the harried flight attendant as he held a tray with a blue box perched atop.
“No, but I was hoping you might have an extra vegan or vegetarian meal perhaps?” I replied hopefully.
He took a quick glance at the label on the box, and said, “Right, that’ll do, then.” And set it in front of me.
A vegan meal. With my seat number, 42J, on the sticker. Past Me must have ordered vegan for Future Me, and Present Me had forgotten entirely. Present Me thanks Past Me profusely.
Most of the outbound travel went smoothly, though Heathrow was more chaotic than I remembered. The cliché reference to cattle never felt more appropriate. We arrived in Rome late, with a few minor mishaps involving customs technology,but finally got to our home for the next three days around 8:30. When Traveler Number Three arrived an hour later, we walked to a trattoria outside the walls of the Vatican and had pizza, bruschetta, and wine before ambling back to shower off the airport cooties and hit our respective pillows for much-needed sleep.
David is already snoring.
Life to the Point of Tears 