Abel's Day 1 Journal Entry

Journal Entry 2 - Day 1

Winner Winner of an Airline Chicken Dinner

So I suppose I should tell you how I ended up in the Wombat (and WomBAR) in downtown Munich. I'm not sure who's idea it was, mine or my Dad's. Somehow we both decided that traveling Europe together for 3 weeks is something that needed to happen this summer. Our planned itinerary is Munich, Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, and back to Munich. We picked Munich as a jumping on and jumping off place simply because (and this continues to baffle me) airfare to Germany is roughly the cost of a Happy Meal. Our plan is to use the EuRail system to travel in between cities, while staying in hostels for a few days in each destination.

We flew out of Minneapolis on Sunday, May 24th, had a layover in Atlanta, left the U.S. at 4:20pm, Central Daylight Time, and arrived in Munich at 1:00am, Central Daylight Time. The bad news is that this is 8:00am in the Munich time zone (aka serious jet lag). The good news (kind of) is that this means that the ever-generous Delta Airlines is compelled to serve us both dinner and breakfast. I have learned that the less aspiring an airline meal is, the better it is going to taste. For example, our breakfast was a bagel and cream cheese with a banana on the side. A perfect way to start the day. There are just not many corners in the food quality department that Delta Airlines can cut on a bagel/banana breakfast (although, I assure you, there is probably someone working around the clock on it). At any rate, breakfast was fantastic. Or maybe it just seemed fantastic compared to our dinner a few hours earlier. Our dinner choices aboard Delta Airlines Flight 103 out of Atlanta non-stop service to Munich were few. Two, to be exact. "Chicken breast and our vegetarian option, which is a vegetable pasta."

I have always held the conviction that "vegetarian" comes from an old Ojibwe word that meant "doesn't hunt well." So I assertively chose the chicken breast with a great deal of pride in my manhood. It was delivered to me in one of those plastic trays that has a clear cellophane cover with adhesive around the edges. I solemnly swear to you that the condensation on the inside of the cellophane actually spelled the words "recently microwaved." But, being a college student, I use a microwave more than my toothbrush. Therefore, I am not one to prioritize presentation or cooking procedures over fundamental taste enjoyment. But Delta Airlines seriously missed the flight on both procedure and taste. Instead of the steaming side of suculant poultry my stomach was craving, I had in my tray steaming strips of soggy poultry. Pre-cut into five strips that looked like they belonged in a fajita, my chicken was submerged in a broth that contained corn, black beans, and about 6 pounds of seasoning salt. It is often my suspician that when you see an overdose of sauces and spices, that means that it is a cover-up for meat of questionable quality. For example, the best way to destroy a tender filet mignon, and likewise, the best way to make a $2.50/lb round steak palateable, is to drown them in A1. I have always been under the impression that microwaves, by nature, cook things uniformly. Apparantly not the on-flight microwaves used by Delta. The fajita-strip on the far left had that rubbery lack of texture that is a sure giveaway that your chicken breast has not been sufficiently microwaved (believe me, this ain't my first rodeo). The fajita-strip on the far right was beyond dry. It was the kind of dry like when you run out of gravy at Thanksgiving and you have to take that last bite of white meat turkey with nothing to wash it down. Then you proceed to chew it all weekend and throughout most of the Christmas shopping season. You finally manage to swallow it on December 17th in the checkout line of Gander Mountain, and by that time, your new and massive jaw muscles have caused people who catch a glimpse of your chin to mistake you for Jay Leno. I was actually a little thankful for my dry little fajita strip, because it gave me something to do for the remaining 6 hours of the flight.

The middle three fajita strips were passable, but they still raised the suspicion that someone at the Delta Airlines Chicken Dinner Factory has aggressive investments in seasoning salt stock. My chicken dinner was complemented by a small garden salad. By small, I mean it consisted of exactly 11 pieces of iceberg lettuce. By garden salad, I mean that exactly 6 pieces of shredded carrot accompanied the lettuce. When I saw my salad, those pictures of starving children in Africa on the front of donation campaign ads for your local "Well-Meaning Charity Group That is Too Bogged Down in Inefficient Beaurocracy to Affect Any Actual Change" (WMCGTTBDIBAAAC). Just to clear up any confusion, I didn't think of the African children because I suddenly wanted to donate my salad to someone who needed/wanted it. I simply thought of the African children because my salad looked like one of them. The lettuce was wilted and the carrots were shriveled and starting to twist like Arbys'curly fries. Suddenly it dawned on me that there was an inexcusable absence of Arbys' curly fries from my plate of food, and I suddenly became quite angry with Delta's paltry fare. Therefore, I had pre-concieved ill will toward my rye bun before I even gave it a chance, all because I was wishing to God that it had been born a curly fry. As some sort of ironic reprimand about the morality of making such judgments, my rye bun turned out to be quite delicious. The last item that made up my Delta dinner was a packet of two wheat crackers and a container of "cheese food," which was ambitiously entitled "Gourmet Cheese." Now first of all, if something feels compelled to set the record straight that it is, in fact, a "food," then I am by no means interested. Secondly, if something feels the need to persuade you via pompous print on the wrapper that it is, in fact, "gourmet," then it is probably nothing of the sort. Gourmet food is when you go to a restaurant where you can't pronounce anything on the menu and the prices are not listed because "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." That is gourmet. Not a plastic container with a tin foil top who's contents have the consistency of peanut butter and a sickly pastel hue.

Regardless of my dinner's shortcomings, I shoveled it all into my face in a matter of minutes, like any true college kid would do with a free meal. Then I proceeded to attempt to attempt to sleep. No, that is not a typo. You see, when you attempt to sleep, you a) arrange yourself in a sleeping position, and b) think about the most recent Jessica Alba movie you have seen. However, on an airplane, I find that it is simply not possible to do either. Therefore, it is not just a struggle to sleep, but most of the night is spent struggling to get into a sleepable situation.

I am 6 feet 5 inches tall. The space between airplane seats is aproximately 3 feet. You do the math while I unravel myself from this pretzel shape I am in. Fortunate enough to have an aisle seat, I was able to stretch my left leg out in the center aisle and trip a stewardess every 5 minutes or so. They retaliated by running my foot over with a 200-pound meal service cart. I promptly surrendered, and my foot and I retreated to the little bubble of space that Delta had allotted me. Now I am faced with a decision. Either I slide my rear forward in the seat, so as to slouch into a somewhat reclining posture, or I slide my rear back and use the fold-down tray in front of me as a pillow. I tried one at a time, just to test the waters. Slouching put my knees within licking distance of my face. Although my knee would have been quite appetizing compared to my recent chicken dinner, I opted for the other method. Curled up in the fetal position, with my head in my arms on a plastic fold down tray, it occured to me that I probably look very much like I am regurgitating my chicken dinner. I could just imagine the smug smiles of self-satisfaction on the faces of the vegetarians around me as they knowingly motion to each other about the plight of my digestive system. After about 5 minutes of this pretzel charade, I abandoned all my attempts to arrange myself in a sleeping position (half of the criteria for a sleep attempt). The second half is also impossible, as the in-flight movies are "Hotel for Dogs," followed by "Yes Man." Watching even a preview for either of these movies would be the most boring 5 minutes of your life. Yet somehow, the full length features capture my attention just enough to make it unable to remember even one Jessica Alba film. Delta Airlines has beaten me once again. I cannot win. And to put the icing on the cake, I glanced around to see every vegetarian in a coma-like unconsciousness. I hope, purely out of spite, that there was something in the veggie pasta that killed them, and that they are not simply enjoying a good night of sleep.

So we arrived in Munich a bit tired, checked into the Wombat City Hostel, and proceeded to explore the city and kick off our backpacking tour of Europe in a grand and enjoyable style. We are thriving on the adventure, and cannot wait to find out what is up ahead. We have been learning a lot on this trip, and we have only just begun. But now I must go find something to eat at a local open-air beer garden, as I am starving. And I don't even care if it buries me at the bottom of the Ojibwe totem pole, I'll take the veggie pasta, thank you very much.