A drunkard and a Nigerian frozen chicken importer

Greetings from Baltimore.

I arrived safely after 31 hours of traveling. My head buzzes from lack of sleep.

I checked in online at home 24 hours before the first flight. There was an unbooked space next to me as I confirmed my seat. I kept my fingers crossed the seat would remain empty.

Phah. I was one of the first people to board the flight. A drunken fat guy, who came in soon after me, took the seat I hoped would stay empty. He passed out almost immediately with his head nodding and swaying in my direction, and the flesh of his fat thighs oozing onto my side of the small seats. I cursed my luck and took more head ache tablets.

I suffered in silence after confirming with one of the flight attendants that the flight was full. There didn't seem to be any way out from the stench. Then, as if by miracle, the girl sitting behind me asked if we could shuffle the seats. I took her seat, the stinky man took mine, and the girl sat on the stinky man's seat to be next to her boyfriend. I was happy.

I spent a long day in Heathrow terminal 4. I realised how much I miss England.

Our connecting flight arrived an hour late in Baltimore. I took a taxi to the hotel, as I couldn't figure out when the next light rail connection would leave, which direction I would go if there was a train, and where I should get off.

My taxi driver was a Nigerian, who had lived here for 18 years. He told me of his plans to move back to Nigeria with his family. He also told me of his foiled frozen chicken export-import business. It had been thriving, until Nigeria decided to ban all imports of frozen chicken. The buggers backdated the ban, meaning that my driver lost everything he had. Yet, he wants to return to Nigeria to help his country.