This is definitely not my finest hour.
I’m stuffing my pantswithairport-loo toilet paper, so thin it disintegrates in my hands. But it’s the best I can do. My period arrived three days early, just as I was leaving for the airport. I think my body knew I was about to spend eighteen hours on a plane and wanted me to be as physically uncomfortable as possible. I assumed one of the biggest airports in the universe would have some variation of a chemist, butapparently not. I have now circled this bastard three times, and I’m on to last resort options.
And honestly, it’s not even a tampon I really want. I want sanitary towels. Big, fat,night-towels with giant wings that make you feel like you’re wearing a nappy. That’s all I want for day one of my period, when I’m bleeding like an episode ofSanta Clarita Diet. Especially when I’m getting onalong-haul flight. I just want to be securely strapped into my nappy and eating chocolate.
Sigh. What’s a woman with a pointlessly functioning uterus to do?
At least the flight itself should be fairly badass. I got an email this morning reminding me it was my last chance to upgrade, and I had a hangover, soI HAD TO DO IT. I basically had no choice?? And anyway, I’ve spent such an insaneamount of money inLA, I figured I might as well spend even sodding more. This is likely going to be my final luxurious hurrah before things get a bit dirtier andhostel-ier, so I wanted one last chance to use a real fork on a plane. If I’m going to spend four weeks trekking around East Asia, I wanted to feel the cool tang of metal cutlery on my tongue one last time.
Weirdly specific lastrequest I know, but there it is.
And having spent so much money to ensure myLAexit was fancy, I’m frankly a bit pissed off about having a breakdown in the airport toilet calculating thelong-lasting effectiveness of toilet paper. It’s just not how I pictured this going.
Maybe the air stewards will be able to help me? I limp towards theBAlounge, steeling myself for a whispered conversationwith an uncomfortable stranger.
‘Hi there!’ aBAemployee greets me enthusiastically as I approach and I pull out my boarding pass. The woman waves me in, encouraging me to ‘have a nice day’. I feel tearful thinking about how long it will likely be until someone else wishes that for me and decide not to ruin the special moment by asking her for a blood plug. The tissues will have tomake do for a bit longer.
Once inside, I am immediately overwhelmed, and immediately lost. It’s like a fancy bar in here, but without bartenders. There are rows ofplush-looking seats lined up everywhere in front offloor-to-ceiling windows, looking out on to the giant planes tootling along the runway. And there are buffet tables of food everywhere.
It’s thrilling, but I didn’t bone upon the rules. What do I do, where am I supposed to go? Is this free? It can’t be free. So where and how do I pay?
I stand frozen with indecision in a corner, fearfully clutching mycarry-on luggage. Thousands and thousands (tens) of white men in suits stroll languidly by me, looking more at home than I do at literal home. One particularly sweaty businessman stops by the coffee machines, grabbinga fistful of those packaged biscuits I thought you could only get when you donate blood.
‘Would you like a hot towel?’ a voice makes me jump. It is another smilingBAautomaton passing by, holding a basket and a pair of tongs.
‘How much?’ I ask suspiciously.
She looks confused. ‘It’s free, hun,’ she says, shaking her head and holding out a steaming white hand towel with the tongs.I slowly take it, watching her carefully, waiting for something else to happen.
What is her game?
She walks away quickly and I examine my free tiny towel.
What the fuck is the point of this? Does she know I’m on my period? If so, white seems like a bad decision. Am I meant to use it when I go to the bathroom? In which case, shouldn’t they hand them out in there?
A small kid sittingnearby pulls expertly at his own hot towel, dabbing his face and hands with the cloth.
Is that it? Is that the whole point of this thing? It’s so rich people can wipe off any vestigial evidence of the world outside this lounge? Wipe off the poorness? Wipe away any skin cells of other passengers who can’t afford to be here?
In which caseI AM SO IN.
I give my available skin a good scrub,and sidle up to the biscuits, emptying the whole basket into my bag. Mine now. These will get me through my long flight.
What about the rest of the food?
I text Mark, he’ll know.
‘I’m in theBAdeparture lounge, it’s so intimidatingly fancy.’
He replies fast. ‘How are you not out of money yet?’
‘Money is just a social construct,’ I type. ‘Stop trying tooverdraft-shame me,it is not relevant to this conversation. I need your help because I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve stolen all the biscuits and also anow-cold tiny towel, but what now? Can I eat anything I want? I’m hormonal and really need food.’
Mark laughs at me over WhatsApp. ‘Still a cliché, Alice.’
‘Please help me, I want the food but I’m afraid. You remember how traumatised I was by shopliftingfrom Woolworths.’
‘Yes, Alice the pauper,’ I can hear the amused sigh across the airways. ‘You can have anything you want. It’s all included. Joe says to say have a safe flight and he misses you.’
