La Rosa Knows

How to Survive the Dreaded 6 am Flight

Friends, Romans, LAX-bound men, lend me your ears!

Let me tell you a funny story about a girl—for our purposes here we’ll name her “I” and divulge this tale using the first person narrative.

Now, for some wacky reason, I decided to book a morning flight for my trip back to Florida to be a bridesmaid in my friend’s wedding. At the time, 6:30 a.m. seemed like a fairly reasonable hour to arrive at the airport, and even an ambitious task that I might take great pride upon achieving.

But, what I had regrettably forgotten is that sleep is necessary for survival. Silly, witless, I.

After a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call, harried shuffle into a waiting shuttle bus, and a large cup of coffee that had absolutely no effect on me, I’ve learned some very important rules to live by:

Don’t book morning flights.
If you accidentally break Rule 1, then do yourself a favor and pack snacks for the car ride. Your lack of hanger (hunger+anger) will thank me.
Whatever you typically order coffee wise? Double it.
Make sure you don’t have to speak to anyone on the flight, because if anyone so much as throws you a sideways glance that early in the morning, you will burn that place to the ground.
With Rule 4 in mind, plug in your iPod, put on a sleep mask, and wrap a plastic bag loosely around your head. People will be freaked out just enough to leave you the eff alone.
Mainly just follow Rule 1.

The Saddest Place On Earth: Airport Bars.

Ever tried to get drunk at an airport bar? They are the saddest places on earth and also, apparently, a spot where people go to make friends.

I made the horrific mistake of booking my flight home from Florida on St. Patrick’s day. So, after a week at home with no booze and cats for friends, when I got to the airport I decided that it was time to get my boozin’ on.

There is a gem of a spot at the Tampa Airport called, “Jose Cuervo Tequileria,” that looks not unlike your neighborhood Applebee’s. I rolled my carry-on in there, saddled up to a table, and ordered myself an Irish coffee.

Admittedly, there was a part of me that thought drinking alone at a bar might lead to some stranger interactions. The problem is that I don’t really like strangers, and I usually have enough of a bitch face to project that attitude. Like, when I was in the security line and the guard had to check my ID he asked me, “Why do you look so angry?” I wanted to reply, “Fuck off,” but instead I smiled and told him I’d “work on it.”

So, at Jose Cuervo Tequileria, I opened up my laptop and put in earbuds to try and discourage any undesired attention. But because the opposite of what I want to happen always inevitably does, I became the victim of some polite conversations.

“Want a little company?” A mid fortyish gentleman said as he stood over me. He had a receding hairline and a belly that hung over his business pants.

“No thanks,” I said and stared down at my keyboard. I felt badly but, come on, leave me and my booze the fuck alone.

After that approach the bar took on a new sad ambiance, as if the lights dimmed with this man’s deflated ego. Then I started to take notice of the people around me, of how tired they looked from traveling, or the prospect of it, the baggy sweatpants they all sported to be comfortable on the plane, how many tables had just one occupant either reading a book and drinking, or staring at the other single tables… It was depressing. My waitress came back, a woman that could have been my mother’s age but with braces and a hot pink scrunchie holding up her hair, she asked if I wanted fries to go with my drink. No, I didn’t.

That’s when I unintentionally locked eyes with a handsome black man at a nearby table.

“I bet you’re Irish,” he smiled at me widely. Maybe he wanted me to throw my head back and laugh, exclaiming “Yes! How did you guess?” and pull up a chair next to him, let him buy me a drink. But instead I nodded and pursed my lips, not amused. It’s not that I can’t feel flattered, having a good looking dude talk to me, but it’s just that I don’t know him, and he could be a serial killer rapist looking for his next redhead corpse to bury— I can’t be that corpse.

Whether it was my silent response, or my half snarl I’ll never know, but he gulped down the rest of his beer and left… I’m a horrible person.