Listen...do you smell something?

Halfway into my fourteen-hour flight, I’m sitting next to a Pakistani who, with his mustachioed mouth agape, is radiating body odor the likes of which I have not smelled since my junior high locker room.  His head totters forward as he abruptly falls asleep and, just as abruptly, wakes himself with a loud dry snore.   And it all started out so well…

Seven hours earlier, I lurched into the Boeing 777, rolling my luggage behind me, and found my seat, next to the window in a 3-seat row.  I was almost the last passenger to board, and I was relieved to see that mine was a window seat with an open seat next to it and a smiling, young, Indian fella sitting in the next seat over.  He greeted me with a nod and a hello that sounded more “Khello!” than anything.

As the army of spruce looking flight attendants attended to their preflight business and my neighbor and I discussed his family back in India, I decided that if there was such thing as a good 14-hour flight, I was about to have one.  

“Excuse me sir,” one of the prim little flight attendants was speaking to my Indian friend, “Your seat is the next one forward.”

My new friend vacated his seat and a large man with a wrinkly off-white dress shirt, a khaki vest, and enough gold rings to upstart a small jewelry store in America plunged into the seat once occupied by such an amiable youngster.  The physical act of sitting sufficiently stirred up the odors in the man’s shirt and pushed them out from the cotton and into the airplane’s limited oxygen supply. 

There was an empty seat between us, which normally would have opened up a lucky 3 feet of extra room to move. However, this man’s aroma smashed me flat against the window.  I simply could not get far enough away.

I spent the first hour of the flight inventing a makeshift gas mask from a plastic airplane cup and the complimentary blanket, and the next hour devising a way to use it discreetly.   The last 12 hours drained away with me reading my nook with my body contorted in just such a way as to not reveal my breathing apparatus. The smelly man looked to have the sense of humor of a pile of rocks, and I doubted his appreciation of my ingenuity.

The plane descended onto the Abu Dhabi runway, and I pushed my way through the throngs to escape the odor.  I was greeted in the airport by two things.  First was the aroma of curry being cooked up in a restaurant nearby (a smell that, to my dismay, struck precisely the same chord in my olfactory senses as the Pakistani).  The second thing that greeted me was a pretty girl with a warm smile and a sign that read ABU DHABI TEACHERS.  I approached her. After a delayed flight, the rank man, and fourteen hours of leg cramps, things were finally going to go my way.

“And your name sir.”  She said it more than asked. 

“Adam Showalter.” 

She flipped through a stack of work visas, got to the last one, and started flipping through again the other way.  As she rifled through the papers for the 5^th time, I realized, alas, things were not finally going to go my way.  I informed her that my original flight had been rebooked, and asked if maybe that’s why my visa hadn’t shown itself during her thorough search.

“Oh definitely.  Follow me.”  She took me away from the rest of the herd, all with visas in hand and heading towards baggage claim, and walked me to a room with a no-nonsense sign that said VISAS. 

“We will find your visa in here.  Just take a seat over there,” she extended her arm and waved it in the opposite direction.  I picked up my carryon bag and turned to go find a seat where she had pointed me, and saw three black folding chairs sitting in the corner of the room.  One was occupied. 

In that occupied chair, in the center of the three, there sat a dark mustachioed man with a wrinkly off-white shirt, a khaki vest, and enough gold rings to upstart a small jewelry store in America.   I couldn’t even make something like this up.  There he was again, and his stink was wafting across the room to me.  Apparently 100% of the people experiencing paperwork problems sat in our row of two.

“I’ll just stand here if that’s okay?” I answered.  And it was okay. 

Ultimately, I got my visa.  I claimed my bags and guitar.  I found my shuttle.  I talked about American music in broken English with the shuttle driver who, while driving us to the hotel, noticed my guitar.  And now I’m here. 

My room is as swanky as any I’ve ever stayed in.  My window overlooks a port with lighted fountains, a wavy bridge that lights up and glows as vehicles go over it, and a castle that looks like the one Aladdin wasted his first wish on. 

So I’ll leave you with this couplet.

The journey here was rank

But this place is swank

I'll post pictures in the next couple days.