This adventure takes us back to the frigid landscape of my most recent “I shouldn’t be here” work trip (see: freezing rain, icy car doors, and existential regret). But this time, the drama didn’t wait for the gate. It started in the terminal.
I arrive at what used to be considered a “developing” airport, and things immediately get… suspicious.
I’m walking past the restroom when a woman—mid-20s, visibly upset—stumbles out crying. Her (boyfriend? handler? emotional support failure?) follows and asks:
“What’s wrong?”
To which she sobs:
“I can’t do it. I took it all off and flushed it.”
Pause.
Before I can even blink, the guy’s face goes from “concerned partner” to full-blown DEA watchlist panic. He hisses:
“Why the hell did you do that, Kristen?! You already did the hard part!
What the hell are we supposed to do now?!”
Kristen, through tears:
“I just… couldn’t do it.”
And me?
Oh, I’m gone.
I’ve seen enough Netflix specials to know when to remove myself from a potentially cartel-adjacent situation. So I yeet myself out of that hallway and head toward food—because nothing says potential federal crime scene like an airport Cinnabon next door.
Enter: Act Two.
I get to the food counter and the guy behind it says:
“What fu*k you want?”
Me, blinking:
“I’m sorry… what?”
Again, deadpan:
“WHAT. FU*K. YOU. WANT?”
Now I’m officially questioning everything. Did the cartel send me a follow-up message? Is this how it ends?
But no—bless the bystander beside me who kindly steps in and says:
“He said what food do you want.”
Ah. Right. Accent.
Turns out it was a thick local drawl + bad audio + my paranoia that made it sound like a threat.
So to recap:
Nearly witnessed a drug mule bail mid-mission
Got mistaken for a potential accomplice just by standing too close
Barely avoided being canceled by misunderstanding a food court worker’s accent
And now, I’m on my way home, once again reminding myself that I don’t just travel—I attract cinematic-level nonsense.
Here’s hoping the return flight doesn’t involve law enforcement, another blizzard, or someone asking if I have room in my luggage for “just one more package.”
