The journey, not the destination

on in-flight dining

Hi there,

Earlier this year, I got my passport renewed in anticipation of a few planned international trips. I dutifully mailed in my soon-to-be-expired booklet, marking the end of a decade beholden to this identifying document that granted me permission to travel. A few weeks later, I received a brand new passport with an upgraded look, new ID number, and possibly the most sullen photograph of myself I can ever remember seeing.

The backstory to that photo took place at the CVS Pharmacy’s photos station—just one part of the multi-step bureaucratic saga that document renewal entails. As an employee proceeded to take a series of snaps, I was told that not only was I not to raise the corners of my mouth, but I was to prevent my eyes from smiling as well. I tried taking it as a compliment that the CVS employee thought my eyes smiled too much, all while diminishing my smile with each digital camera click. In the end, it was to negate this supposedly engrained characteristic of mine that I finally extinguished all my internal joy, and attempted the dejected expression that will now follow me for the next ten years of my life—and to the ends of this earth.

A few days after my new passport came in, I received my expired one in the mail as well, now with two holes punched into the photo page—a clear indication that the document had entered its retirement era. Flipping through a decade of visas and various other entry and exit stamps, what stands out first are the long bilingual names of a few kingdoms, in both English and Arabic: The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, The Kingdom of Bahrain. Also on varying ends of the monarchy spectrum, proof of entry into the United Arab Emirates (Abu Dhabi), Madrid, and London (Heathrow). There were many stamps for London Heathrow, in fact, though they stopped a couple years ago when the implementation of an electronic entry system meant no audible "cachink" from an immigration officer’s physical stamp. Several stamps indicated my Lebanon visits, including a particularly memorable March 2020 exit. There were multiple full-page, one-year tourist visas to Pakistan, recalling all the times I got my advance visa at the Pakistani consulate in midtown Manhattan. Evidence too of travels to Mexico City, Lisbon (a quick jaunt for a six-hour layover), Istanbul, Rome, and Catania (the latter two from our honeymoon).

My favorite marking on my expired passport is a stamp with the symbol of a classic train engine, from a Eurostar trip via the undersea “Chunnel” from London to Amsterdam—a contrast from many other airport entry and exit stamps featuring abstract plane images.

London—> Amsterdam Eurostar train stamp, on 22/2/22

However, these wide-ranging stamps don't account for the many domestic American visits I made during this past decade: there is no collection of procedural ink to indicate the many states and cities in the US that feel like different universes, and sometimes, with layovers, take even longer to get to than London (which might as well just be a suburb of NYC, on a different subway line): Houston, Miami, Boston, Dearborn, Albuquerque, Cleveland, Denver, Bozeman, Los Angeles.

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International or domestic, most of my trips involved an airport and, subsequently, being airborne. And depending on their length, some kind of edible or potable sustenance was usually necessary.

I enjoy the fact that several meals are served on overseas flights. I'm always curiously reading and comparing the bilingual menus. Fun fact: While Emirates Airlines' English menu lists beers and wines, its Arabic menu on the other side omits them, going straight to the juice options.

an Emirates Airlines menu

However, that's where the pleasure ends for me.

While I appreciate the fact that there are meals, it’s not the meal itself that I enjoy. Nor have I come to relish the song and dance of deciding whether or not to put your seat in its upright position for a meal, and whether you want to engage in confrontation with the stranger in front of you, just so that you are parallel-aligned for the impending ordeal—all while sitting elbow-knocking distance from your dining neighbor.

Those journeying with me for long trips know that I'm, shall we say, a traveler with a sensitive stomach: I’m not one for tucking into an in-flight meal. If I am to eat, though, I only dabble with the foil-covered entree, forgoing everything but the carbs, wiping off as much of the sauce from the aforementioned carbs as I can, always ignoring the raw salad offering. I will carve unceremonious holes into the dependably-offered piece of bread, using my plastic knife to fill it with globs of butter. This is before or after I drop a utensil or napkin in between the seats, never to be retrieved again. And finally, I may or may not take a spoon or two of the dessert. My modus operandi on flights is: sustenance, not flavor.

Breakfast service suddenly arrives at a time that is certainly not breakfast at either the departure location or that of arrival: “Cheese omelette or uttapam?” Neither for me, ever, on a plane. I know better than to have a hot meal within an hour or two of landing...

But at least there is a sense of routine that accompanies this guarantee of meals on international flights, a way of breaking up the long hours ahead, of making it okay with not knowing what time it is—because even if timing matters, time truly doesn’t.

I’ve always gotten excited by the tea and coffee service on flights to England, where I’ve been traveling since I was little. Its timing meant it was “morning”, but more importantly it was nearing the moment of our arrival in a different country, for a family reunion, for new adventures a world away from home.

“Tea, coffee, coffee, tea, coffee, tea, tea, coffee!” This tinkling and sprinkling of an announcement in a British accent paints for me an image of tea being delicately poured into a ceramic teacup—one that would appear miraculously out of thin air. (When Americans imagine a “spot of tea” we truly believe that a magical tea party will materialize...on the spot.) Of course in reality, any Britain-bound flight’s tea is no better than the tea offered on any other flight: it's just weakly flavored, lukewarm water in a cardboard-plastic hybrid—lest a passenger get burned with scalding liquid in the case of turbulence.

On American domestic routes, my imagination fails to similarly take flight. Not only is the single offered beverage the only complimentary service on a domestic flight—the descriptor of “complimentary” being stressed loud and clear, just in case you missed that it was COMPLIMENTARY—but you also have to finish it on a military training schedule. I have never once finished my drink safely within the parameters of the flight attendants' routines. No sooner have I taken my second sip than I feel like my meal tray is expected to be cleared and stowed away.

Don't they know that my single complimentary drink of choice, a tomato juice, must take on the role of a main course meal? One that will last me the next five hours to California, alongside my miniature pretzels from my miniature pretzel bag that I’m slowly breaking into even more miniature little sticks to help pass the time? Or if it’s a seltzer water, do they actually expect me to chug something with bubbles?

Meals are guaranteed on international flights, but by contrast on domestic flights: Please provide your credit card so that you can buy an a-la-carte “Mediterranean cheese plate.” The airline will probably charge you a dollar for each letter it takes to spell Mediterranean.

Several years ago, when my husband Gabe and I were ping-ponging across the country on red-eyes, every other month respectively, he would send me back to New York with one of his signature packed sandwiches. But otherwise, if I forgot to bring food on the flight, it was tomato juice or bust (just don't give me the vegetable juice containing celery by accident).

Occasionally a journey will involve a long layover, one worthy of a sit-down meal. The Istanbul airport has served this very purpose on several trips over the years. My appetite briefly revs back to life on such occasions.

a layover meal at the Istanbul Airport

At the end of a flight, when the seatbelt light dramatically indicates the plane's initial descent, and we hear the announcement, “This does conclude the service portion of our flight and we will be collecting any remaining trash or items,” I know that I am their target audience. It is seemingly only my empty plastic cup that must, at long last, be collected and properly discarded.

Whether we're talking domestic or international flights, though, one thing is consistent: my carry-on is stuffed to the gills with bits and bobs from the meal service. Mini water bottles, a sealed pair of crackers and vacuum-packed mini cheese squares, packets of pretzels, and half-size granola bars: non-perishable, and undoubtedly miniature, snacks that often serve me (or my husband) well, albeit well after landing.

Days and weeks after a flight, a Biscoff cookie—Delta Airlines' signature snack—always seems to manifest itself in my everyday backpack when I least need it (…not now, Biscoff...). I recently almost hoarded a lemon-olive oil dressing in the cutest packaging from a Turkish Airlines flight. In theory, it sounded like a great way to dress some arugula from a triple-washed salad pack from Trader Joe's once home, but my husband dissuaded me from doing so. On a trip back from Bahrain, I ate nothing but McVittie’s digestive biscuits—a replacement for all the hot meals I could not but stare at—whose remainders ended up in our Brooklyn fridge some tens of hours later.

a battered box of digestives that made it from Bahrain, across two flights, a layover, and all the way back to my kitchen in New York—a few still left to spare

“Would you like anything to eat?” my hosts might ask me, immediately upon my arrival. After landing, and after the dust settles from potentially stressful start-stop Uber rides to my final destination, I am always rearing for a meal.

At this point, I am obviously not going to be your polite “Oh I just had breakfast/lunch/dinner on the flight—I'm so full” houseguest. Yes, do defrost those raviolis in your freezer for me. Why actually sure, I will have a midnight sandwich, don't mind if I help myself. Mana'eesh in the vicinity? A 7am halwa puri stop on our way home? A taco truck still in operation? Take me there. Immediately.

Have a great week, and until soon,

Insia