It Happened to Me: Our First-Class Dream Seats Turned Into a Projectile-Vomiting Nightmare

My husband owes me, big time.

“I really want a hot dog,” says my husband, Steve, “but my stomach is kind of upset.”

We are in an airport outside of Rio de Janeiro, preparing to board a very small airplane to São Paulo, the first of four flights home — more than twenty hours of travel. My own stomach turns sour as I begin to mentally inventory what we both have eaten in the last half day. Our ten day trip started with our niece’s wedding and ended with the spectacular Copacabana Beach, and we didn’t exactly take it easy on the food.

“Kind of upset like maybe you shouldn’t have had a bacon cheeseburger for lunch or is it more, you know, emergent?” I ask. Steve winces. He is a fastidiously clean and groomed Navy veteran, who does not under any circumstances talk about bodily functions or gross things. I prefer to talk through every detail.

“I just had a code brown,” he says, looking a little sweaty. I almost grin, titillated that he used such an indecent (for him) expression. But things are clearly bad.

“Maybe we shouldn’t board this tiny plane,” I say. This makes the Big Strong Man return.