How well do you travel? Everyone has their secret weapon. Some people swear by knocking back a few glasses of wine with dinner so they can snooze through the turbulence. Personally, I’ve never fancied arriving at my destination with a hangover and raccoon eyes, so I’ve always struggled to sleep on flights. Add to that the fact that I’m six feet tall, and “economy class comfort” is basically an oxymoron.
Just three weeks into wedded bliss, Dave and I were already proving our vows by testing the limits of “in sickness and in jet lag.” Off we flew to San Francisco—our flights generously paid for by our future “benefactor”, Mr. Smith, who clearly thought we’d enjoy the scenic route, complete with multiple pitstops.
By the time we dragged ourselves into Frankfurt Airport, we looked like extras from The Walking Dead—and still had a 12-hour flight to San Francisco ahead of us. Since both of us are over six feet tall, airplane sleep is a cruel myth. We started wondering how to score some sleeping tablets. Not exactly the honeymoon souvenir we had in mind, but desperate times.
Neither of us had ever touched a sleeping pill—Dave is a medication skeptic of the highest order. But after about 36 hours without sleep, he looked ready to sell his kidneys if it meant a nap. So, off we went pill-hunting.
Frankfurt Airport is basically a mall with airplanes attached, so eventually we stumbled on what looked like a pharmacy. We searched every shelf like wannabe drug mules, but no luck. Finally, Dave tried to explain to the shop assistant what we needed. Her English was iffy, so Dave, in his infinite wisdom, switched to Afrikaans. Shockingly, that worked better (who knew Frankfurt had a secret Afrikaans fan club?). She waved us toward a tiny square window at the back, where an unimpressed man appeared.
Dave repeated our sob story. The man rolled his eyes and snapped, “I don’t understand that language. Speak English.” (So much for the Afrikaans connection.) After a brief moment of suspense where we thought he’d ghost us entirely, he reappeared with a small plastic bag containing one lonely blue pill. His instructions: cut it in half, pop it 30 minutes before the flight, enjoy dinner, then drift off into dreamland.
Perfect. Except that when the 30-minute mark rolled around, we found ourselves crouched in a corner like two nervous teenagers trying to hide from our parents while cutting contraband. Honestly, it looked like we were divvying up cocaine. But Dave, steady-handed as a surgeon, split it into two immaculate halves. Down the hatch they went.
Seconds later, the intercom buzzed: “Bing bong bing… Flight 343 to San Francisco has been delayed two hours.” TWO HOURS. The look we gave each other could’ve won us an Oscar. Half a pill down, no refund policy.
What happened next? Absolutely nothing. At least nothing we remember.
We woke up 12 hours later to flight attendants shaking us like maracas. Apparently, while the rest of the plane filed out, Dave and I were still snuggled together at the front of economy (not our seats, by the way), seatbelts fastened, looking like a pair of mannequins on display.
I staggered off the plane feeling like I’d emerged from a medically induced coma. Dizzy, dazed, and with two attractive dry streaks of spit decorating my chin. Romantic honeymoon vibes, right?
To this day, I don’t know what that mystery pill was—but I’m 73% sure it was a roofie. Because honestly, what else can knock out two six-footers for 12 hours straight, unless Lufthansa secretly employs Sleeping Beauty’s fairy godmother?
#TravelFails #FunnyTravelStories #JetLagChronicles #AirportAdventures #TallTravelerProblems #TravelHumor #MysteryPillSaga #EconomyClassSurvival #SleepyButNotSorry #WanderLOL
Tales from the Tangled Trail 
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