I found this in my archives the other day. This is no April Fool's joke! It really happened on April 28, 2007 during a layover in Las Vegas.
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This is a true story and comes with a warning. You may want to wait until either your stomach is empty or your food is well digested before you continue to read.
My layover in Vegas is exactly as scheduled. Having flown out of Sacramento at 8:30 in the morning, I now have about one hour and 45 minutes to grab a bite to eat and do a little work before departing on my connecting flight to Little Rock. I’m in deep thought about the list of things I need to work on as I head to the next gate. Then from behind me, unexpectedly, something wet hits the back of head. My first reaction is that someone has spilled a coke on me (it was that much). This, however, was not ice cold, but significantly warm. I turn to my attacker and am shocked to see an older lady head down, throwing her guts out onto the floor. She glances up at me with a look of sheer horror in her eyes as she continues to barf and sees the same expression on my face as I realize what is now rolling down the back of my neck. It is a surreal moment, etched into my mind forever as our eyes meet and lock on to each other. I have no idea who looked more horrified.
I am drenched in vomit from head to toe. Without saying a word to her, I quickly turn away and head for the nearest men's room. I had the same layover on the outbound trip, so I know where to go. I feel her upchuck dripping down my right arm.
Once in the restroom, I assess the damage. It is as gross as can be imagined. Her previous meal is now all over the back of my shirt, down the entire length of the right leg of my pants, and all over my backpack, which was piggy backed onto my suitcase. Somehow, and I still have not figured out the physics of it all, both the front AND back of my shoes are caked in her hurl. Using all the available mental strength I possess, I block out my natural tendency to throw up right there and start stripping off my shirt. I stick my head underneath one of the faucets and start wetting the back of my head. I imagine what that scene must have looked like to others and I continue to block out the urge to puke.
You’ve probably never had any reason to realize this, but when you stick your head under one of those motion sensor-ed faucet, nothing happens! Go figure. Some engineer probably never thought to design that contingency into his electronics or maybe my head was simply too big to get close enough to trip the sensor. Regardless, there is no water, so I'm leaning over the counter in the men's room, alternating between getting a miserly handful of water, and sticking my head into the sink to trickle what feels like a thimble full of water onto the back of my head. The bathroom is crowded, but I could care less.
I am equally frustrated with the motion sensor-ed paper towel dispenser. It only feeds a few inches of paper at a time and requires a delay between requests that feels like an excruciating eternity. So I'm standing there waving my hand up and down in front of the sensor with no shirt on, the back of my head now dripping, attempting to get yards of paper towels out of this stupid machine a few slow inches at a time. Thankfully, I notice that the supply closet door is open. I leave all my stuff at the sink and beseech a couple of maintenance workers for help. I tell them that some woman has just projectile vomited all over me, and that I need a whole roll of paper towels. They look at me like I have the plague and give me an entire roll of hand towels without so much as speaking a word. As I walk back to my cleaning station, they ask where the accident happened. I tell them to look down the hall, and they quickly disappear.
Things are looking up; I now have an entire roll of paper towels. I wipe myself down as much as I am legally allowed to do in a public airport restroom. I end up attempting to hand wash my shirt in the sink. Thankfully, I have all my clothes in my carry-on, though all are dirty. I rationalize that dirty clothes, as bad as they may smell, will be much more acceptable to my future traveling companions than my current attire. About into my third cycle of hand washing, I wish the two maintenance guys were still here so I could get a garbage bag. I think about hand washing my pants as well, but know that if I don't get a bag of some sort, having wet clothes with throw up on them zipped up in my suitcase will be more than anyone can bear. I ponder throwing all my clothes in the trash can.
Things continue to look up when another maintenance man comes in and starts mopping the floor. I tell him the story, ask him for some sort of plastic bag. Without saying anything, he goes out into the concourse and starts yelling at one of his coworkers to bring him a plastic bag (I can hear him from inside). He doesn't hold back any of the details in his request, and I think that there will soon be a pretty good number of spectators. The man returns and gives me a garbage bag for which I am extremely thankful. I rinse off my jeans, wipe off my shoes (while pondering again just how she managed to cover both the front AND back of them), drop everything into the bag, twist it, double wrap it, and tie it off. It should be hermetically sealed enough to make it home.
The worst of it all is on my backpack. I wipe it down as best I can. There is vomit residue stuck in the teeth of my zipper that I cannot get out. I decide to live with it for now.
After I change into some dirty underwear, shorts, and a soiled button down shirt, I cram my garbage bag into my already stuffed carry-on and break the zipper trying to close the darn thing! Thankfully, it has a double zipper, and I manage to get it closed. I catch a whiff of throw up as I finish zipping up my suitcase that results in another round of thimble head washing. When I'm done, it is almost time to start boarding my connecting flight.
Once on the plane, I turn on the air above my head to full blast, attempting to confuse those around me as to the origin of the lovely aroma now wafting about. I begin journaling this stinky adventure until my battery dies. When I arrive home, Melanie greets me with great hesitance (I called her to give her an advance warning). I unseal the bag, dump everything out on the driveway and power wash it with the hose. I take a nice hot shower, sit down and finish writing this story.
It would be nice if there was some really deep and meaningful spiritual principle that one could discern from an experience such as this. I don't know what it is, but for me, just processing through it in writing makes it a little less traumatic. Maybe, it will actually be good for a laugh or two, or make it into one of my sermons. For now, however, it is simply the World's Worst Travel Experience!
