Zagreb Airport 1972
My parents took me to continenal Europe for the first time in the summer of 1972 when I was nine. When we flew from Dubrovnik to Paris, we went through Zagreb, and I felt really ill.
We flew Yugoslav Airlines for the first leg, and the plane's engines, and thus air conditioners, were off while it sat in the sun. Whenever I think of the phrase "stifling heat," this is the reference point for me. It was brutal, and I started feeling ill. Eventually, the plane turned on, and we flew the short leg to Zagreb.
I was still feeling poorly, though. I had stopped sweating, but started having bad bowel pain. At that age, I did NOT want to poop in an airplane or airport bathroom. But after we landed, the pain became unbearable, and my Dad took me to the men's room, and I found a clean stall, though given the imminence of my evacuation, I doubt cleanliness would have been a major factor; when you GOTTA GO, you gotta go. I released a massive volume of feces into the bowl and sat there panting for a couple of minutes from exhaustion.
Finally, I stood up to wipe, and I looked into the bowl. There was this huge, orangish mass that looked to have the consistency of a sponge. I had never seen a poop that color, consistency or volume before. I'm guessing that, since I only ate bread, onion soup and pasta (and chocolate and ice cream, when permitted) in those days, the color at least was the result of some bad Yugoslavian tomato sauce. Anyway, I cleaned up and flushed it away, hugely relieved, but also completely wrung out. We then got on Air France to Paris, and the rest of the flying experience was comfortable and uneventful.
That sensation of horror, exhaustion and relief when I looked at that misshaping orange turd as it was flushed down the pipes on its way to the Zagreb sewer is exactly the same sensation I had seeing Donald Trump disappear into Air Force One this morning.
We flew Yugoslav Airlines for the first leg, and the plane's engines, and thus air conditioners, were off while it sat in the sun. Whenever I think of the phrase "stifling heat," this is the reference point for me. It was brutal, and I started feeling ill. Eventually, the plane turned on, and we flew the short leg to Zagreb.
I was still feeling poorly, though. I had stopped sweating, but started having bad bowel pain. At that age, I did NOT want to poop in an airplane or airport bathroom. But after we landed, the pain became unbearable, and my Dad took me to the men's room, and I found a clean stall, though given the imminence of my evacuation, I doubt cleanliness would have been a major factor; when you GOTTA GO, you gotta go. I released a massive volume of feces into the bowl and sat there panting for a couple of minutes from exhaustion.
Finally, I stood up to wipe, and I looked into the bowl. There was this huge, orangish mass that looked to have the consistency of a sponge. I had never seen a poop that color, consistency or volume before. I'm guessing that, since I only ate bread, onion soup and pasta (and chocolate and ice cream, when permitted) in those days, the color at least was the result of some bad Yugoslavian tomato sauce. Anyway, I cleaned up and flushed it away, hugely relieved, but also completely wrung out. We then got on Air France to Paris, and the rest of the flying experience was comfortable and uneventful.
That sensation of horror, exhaustion and relief when I looked at that misshaping orange turd as it was flushed down the pipes on its way to the Zagreb sewer is exactly the same sensation I had seeing Donald Trump disappear into Air Force One this morning.