SAS = Snide Angry Stewards

I had said good-by to my parents at the airport after they had made the ultimate sacrifice of driving me from Minnesota to the insanity that is O'Hare. Have I thanked you recently? Thank you, Mom and Dad! And there I was. Alone. Save for my dog, Harold. We were standing in the security line and I was crying.

I cried through security.

I cried at the gate.

I cried on the plane.

I cried so hard from here to there...I simply cried everywhere! (New Dr. Seuss book?)

I remember sitting at the gate with a sedated Harold curled up on my lap. I stared at the white ceiling tiles and blue pipes and felt like I was at the bottom of a waterless pool. I felt a chunk of my chest missing and wanted more than anything to run back home. At that moment I was three and needed my parents, damnit! Thankfully I had the tissues my mom gave me (she is so smart) and soon my face resembled a pepperoni pizza with a pointy cherry tomato for a nose. I reflected on how this pain was self-inflicted. "I must be a masochist," I thought.

I boarded the plane and my pill-popping puppy and I were happy to see that there was a spare seat between us and the woman at the end of the row. I will call her "Dear L" because she was so welcoming and lovely. Harold was besotted and she shared the empty seat with him. A good thing since there was no room for him on the floor in coach. I had somewhat regained my composure and told her my story when asked. She replied that she was a Dane but had lived in Mozambique and Vietnam for her husband's work. She had travelled alone to meet him with her four kids and she said she was crying the whole time. She now lived back in Denmark and was glad to be home after twenty years.

Just then, we were interrupted by a flight attendant. "Sir," she yelled at a man in front of me. "Do not put your blanket over your knees during take-off!"

I like to think of myself as a pretty frequent flyer, but I'd never heard this rule before. Nor had I encountered such a forceful stewardess before.

Dear L and I continued our conversation through take off when dinner was served.  I was feeling especially nauseous and declined the suspicious looking meal. I did ask for the saltines served with it though. It was then that a different flight attendant started knocking on my chair. Looking up, I was greeted with a severe face and a request to "put up your seat during dinner please." Given her tone she might as well have said, "You stupid American asshole, can't you see the person behind you is trying to eat?" I felt really bad for being so obtuse and obliged right away...but the seat got stuck. So I twisted away from Harold to haul the seat up manually only to turn back to a scene: Harold was in Dear L's business attempting to snatch her food. "God! Can anything else go wrong?!" I thought melodramatically as I grabbed Harold and apologized profusely. I offered Dear L the dinner I hadn't eaten, but she refused and took my misbehaving puppy in stride. She was about as generous as a person could be in that situation.

"That is not good," said a passing steward, heretofore referred to as The Lutefisk due to his unsavory appearance and behavior.

"I am so sorry!" I said on repeat.

"We have strict rules here on board," he began.

"I know, I know, and I'm very sorry. She can have my dinner! I didn't have it!" And here I started to cry.

Now, I know this is not something to cry about, but I was in an emotionally fragile state, feeling barfy as hell, and now chided for the second time on this flight. Dear L let me alone as I got out my feels and rested my head down on the tray in front of me. Not two minutes a later, and I felt a series of unwelcome jabs at my shoulder. "The tray is not for sleep!" The Lutefisk said which brought on a fresh new wave of tears. Who made up these stupid rules? Was this what I was in for in Scandinavia? How many rules did they have and how was I to learn them all?

These thoughts were interrupted by a wave of turbulence that did nothing to improve my nausea. A man was coming out of the bathroom and making his way back to his seat as the "fasten seatbelt sign" came on. "Sir!" an attendant shrieked over the intercom, "You must sit down right now! The seatbelt sign is on!"

At this point I stopped caring about winning these people's approval. What was their problem? The man was clearly attempting to do just as she asked. Did SAS flight attendants undergo military boot camp before they were allowed to serve food on board?

Feeling hunger pains, but also nausea, I asked a stewardess for more saltines. She heaved a sigh. "I don't think so. They are part of the dinner. The dinner is put away." Luckily, she found some sitting "on a bench" in back and gave them to me with the air of someone that had just saved a baby from a burning building. I didn't quite see how hard it could be to get a few saltine packets, but appreciated it just the same.

The rest of the flight proved uneventful. Dear L gave me her card and told me to call her with whatever I needed. Having been in my position, she was wonderfully understanding, and my view of Scandinavians improved. She fawned over Harold, despite his earlier idiocy (and mine. Bad dog mom!) and said he was such a good dog on the flight. He was...curled up in his chair the whole time except for "the food incident". I appreciated her words so much.

As breakfast was passed around, The Lutefisk said, "maybe you should put the dog on the ground so he can't get the food." This would have been a fine request, if not for the fact that I was already in the process of putting Harold on the ground, and that his voice was dripping with condescension.

"No, he's fine!" Dear L said to raised eyebrows from The Lutefisk.

"Very well," he said walking away with a superior air. I wanted to throw his lutefisk ass in the oven.

No further incidents occurred and Harold and I filed off the plane with a feeling of relief. But of course, The Lutefisk could not let me go without a parting word.

"He is not well-trained, your dog."

"He is a puppy. He made a mistake. I apologized and it didn't happen again."

"I've never seen a dog try to get food."

"Perhaps you should train him if you are so concerned," I retorted, my patience waning.

"I could, but you wouldn't like how I did it," he replied.

"I'm sure I wouldn't."

Thankfully the line started to move and I was able to leave the gelatinous fish behind, even as I heard him complaining about the hund (dog) to another passenger in Danish.

Once off the plane, my worries shifted. Poor Harold hadn't peed in 16 hours. He refused to use the puppy pads, although with the crew we had, it was probably best he didn't go on the plane. We ran to customs where a very nice officer smiled at the dog, looked at my visa and passport, and waved me through without any trouble. More nice people helped me sling my heavy suitcases onto a cart at baggage claim, and by the time I saw Ian, I had a much more favorable impression of Danes.

Since then, everyone I have met has been wonderfully nice and helpful. The lesson? Don't judge a region by its flight crew. A bit specific for a lesson, but true all the same.

P.S. I am happy to report that Harold and his bladder are fine.