I Got High and Flew to Italy
Even though it's illegal.
When I got an email from my friend Anikka inviting me to Italy for her thirty-ninth birthday, I thought maybe it was spam or a nigerian prince at first. But after re-reading the evite several times, I determined it was real. “Tuscany. Wine. Castle. Italy.” She used all the right buzzwords; my ticket practically bought itself.
I always try to leave Los Angeles in August to escape the suffocating heat. I’m not meant for hot weather; I also hate the sun. I wish it would explode already and put us all out of our misery. I decided that if I was gonna be miserable from the heat anyway, I’d rather be miserable in Italy.
I’ve always been drawn to Italy; I love the pasta, the architecture, the Super Mario Brothers, and don’t get me started on the women. I want one. But I doubt I could make it through customs with one or two stashed in my suitcase.
I bought a few new outfits leading up to my trip because I needed to look incredible in my vacation photos. I can already hear the chime of a new email from my accountant, Jeffrey, asking why I spent money from my business account at Crossroads. I hate how he doesn’t let me write everything off, especially when I’m purchasing something important, like from Sephora or Nordstrom. I don’t think he understands that my job is to look good. I’m a writer, and I write better when I have nice clothes and expensive jewelry on. I should get a worse accountant since I hate giving my money to the government. I probably wouldn’t pay taxes if I didn’t have Jeffrey. He might be the only thing keeping me from doing hard time in a fancy lady’s prison, so I guess I’ll keep him on the payroll. But for the record, I do want to go to jail at some point; it’s on my bucket list. And I’m mad the dumb orange man got a mug shot before I did.
The morning of my flight, I stuffed my suitcase with my new clothes and tons of edibles. Everyone warned me not to bring weed into Italy, but that made me want to bring weed into Italy even harder. I googled “Is weed legal in Italy?” It’s definitely not. And if I was caught with it, I couldn’t play dumb anymore because I used my personal computer to do my research. My search history would totally tell on me, but if Casey Anthony can get off after Googling foolproof suffocation, then maybe I’d get lucky, too. My odds of getting arrested were significantly higher than if I just left the edibles at home. I had to bring them.
I wore a light purple linen jumpsuit for the flight, even though I knew wearing a jumpsuit on a plane was a horrible idea. It would take me forever to unbutton every time I had to use the bathroom, which would be a lot considering how much wine I planned on drinking between leaving my house and Florence. What’s the worst that could happen? I accidentally flush one of the sleeves down the toilet, sucking me with it, and then spitting my body out somewhere over Canada? That was a risk I was willing to take.
I had time to kill before my flight, and my ex-girlfriend was travelling with me, long story, and we decided to eat at a place called Chicken and Beer, which was right next to our gate. I think Ludacris owns it because there was a huge framed photo of him holding a chicken above the bar. She ordered the fully loaded tater tots and a side of waffles. I didn’t order any food because I was saving all my carbs for Tuscany. But I did order an eighteen-dollar glass of red wine that tasted disgusting, like fermented grapes. And then I ordered another because drinking bad wine is better than drinking no wine at all.
I pulled a container of edibles out of my carry-on bag so we could start the process of getting high. I struggled for a good twenty minutes to get the tin open. I had to use a butter knife and a little thing I learned in high school called leverage to crack it apart. I always carry a knife with me for emergencies in case I have to cut a bitch or free myself from a hostage situation, but I left little knify at home so the asshats at TSA wouldn’t confiscate it and put me on a no-fly list.
The edibles hit me while I was inside Hudson News. I walked in with nothing and walked out with a sleeve of Pringles, a bag of trail mix, and a big bag of dehydrated apple slices. We sat at our gate and watched three teenage girls film a TikTok dance near the window. They probably had enough followers to start a small war, or at the very least, to fist-fight every person in the airport.
I was high as fuck by the time our group was called to board. We gathered our bags and Pringles and got in line. I could see a vein protruding from the Gate Agent’s forehead. He looked like he was about to explode like Mount Vesuvius, and it was probably best not to make eye contact with him. He lost it as we got closer to the gate and screamed, “The facial recognition scanner won’t work if everyone is crowding around here! Group one, get in the proper line!” The person at the front of our group stupidly lined up in the red carpet line, not the general boarding loser line.
We backed up and got into the proper line, and that’s when I felt the cold talons of a stranger clamp down on my forearm. I followed the hand up to the owner, it belonged to an angry old woman who screeched in my face, “NO! This is for people who are in line! You are not in line!” She yanked me back while digging into my flesh. I was a little too high to be man-handled by a stranger. This woman was giving off High School Principal vibes, so I tried to act not high and told her, “Do not grab me or put your hands on me. That’s not okay.” It felt weird saying that to a woman instead of a man. What I really wanted to say was, “Punch me in the face, bitch. I’ll get free Delta miles for life.”
“THEY WERE HERE FIRST!” She screamed with such a high-pitched frequency I worried she blew out the eardrums of all the fake emotional support dogs in the terminal.
I replied, “Lady, I don’t know what your deal is, but they called our group, and we’re boarding. Let go of me.” She unlatched her claws from my arm and let out a hiss as if I was scared of an evil old witch. Honey, I’ve killed a full-grown man using the power of manifestation, do not mess with me. Plus, if I let her touch me, I’d have to let everyone on the plane touch me. This was a good reminder that a Karen can pop up out of nowhere, and you should always be prepared. I was way too high to go viral. Plus, I had a black eye from getting Botox a few days earlier. I was trying to look hot for Italy, and it backfired on me.
We boarded the plane, and I had a good seat where I could keep an eye on Karen during the flight in case she wanted to come back for round two. I usually pick a window seat when I fly because I like to roast the mid-west to the person sitting next to me, but I booked the tickets too late and had to settle for an aisle seat.
The three TiKToc dancers boarded the plane, but they seemed to have multiplied because now there were fifty of them. I looked for context clues and was able to google who they were. I discovered they were a Parisian dance troupe, and they were flying home after competing in the World of Dance competition in Anaheim. Wow, if they were performing in Anaheim they must be good. It’ would’ve been awesome if they performed a flash mob later in the flight. Not.
I took another edible since I was safely on the plane and could relax in my seat for the next ten and a half hours. My high was interrupted by a young blonde teenage dancer who was yelling at me in French and shoving her ticket in my face. I’ve never been more terrified of a single person in my entire life. The flight attendant came over and pointed this scary girl to her seat, which was not mine. I was in the right place, I won.
I didn’t know the flight would be filled with loud French teenagers; I didn’t bring enough edibles to share with them, thereby earning their respect. It might be illegal to give drugs to teenagers, but if they’re going to get drugs from someone, they should get them from me.
As we taxied down the runway, I looked around and realized I could not die with these people if the plane crashed. The news coverage would be all about the giant French teen dancing troupe, taking away attention from the rest of us. I’d probably only get a brief mention, like a participation trophy, “Congrats, you died on the plane. You were there too, good job.”
I hid my iPad underneath my blanket so the flight attendant wouldn’t make me put it away before we reached ten thousand feet. I love my iPad so much, similar to how a Mother loves her child. I carefully curated my in-flight entertainment leading up to the trip. I downloaded a bunch of books and audiobooks, the New York Times crossword archives, and endless digital magazines. I was in my happy place.
I took another edible two hours into the flight; I was incredibly high. The French teens were filming TikTok dances in the aisle. The leader would yell and snap at them when they messed up the choreography. She’ll probably be President one day.
I looked over and saw my ex-girlfriend was watching a documentary about art on her monitor. No wonder we didn’t work out, we have totally different taste in TV. She wants to watch documentaries about volcanoes and surfing, and I want to watch a man murder his wife.
An elderly man across the aisle from me was watching My Girl. I loved that movie as a child. God, so much has happened since it came out: nine eleven, Balloon Boy, Tan Mom, Cash Me Ousidde girl.
I realized I didn’t really tell anyone I was going to Italy. I certainly didn’t tweet about it because Amanda Knox follows me, and I wouldn’t want to trigger her.
I looked down the aisle and saw the flight attendants were coming through with the beverage cart. Finally, come to Daddy. I ordered three red wines and told my ex-girlfriend to order three as well, and then I’d drink hers.
After I finished all of our wines, I started to feel sleepy. The combination of wine and edibles and Karens and French teenagers was exhausting. I closed my eyes, nodded off, and just prayed to god the plane didn’t crash before I got to spend a week in a castle in Tuscany. But if the plane must crash, at least save it for the return flight.