Riding north, down south.
Recently, I have been spending some time on websites reading up on motion sickness – particularly ones involving planes – and have come to this realisation:
It’s the smell.
Yes, that is definitely it.
A rather bold statement, but to which may, oddly enough, raise eyebrows and curious looks:
“Just what smell are you referring to?”
“Does the plane smell not bother you at all?”
Others breathe in, breathe out; to them, it is like normal, like clockwork – a simple body function that performs so naturally, so perfectly, so unconsciously.
Me, I gag, stutter, perspire, empty my stomach; a futile wish to catch forty winks. Sleep, I think, is actually something of absolute necessity when one travels on a plane.
And so, I think I am going to need all the luck I can get to endure an eight-hour journey, and then back again.
This shall be a good time as any to start wishing for that superpower. And it is not the ability to fly.