Every start of the academic year, Bwog features places our writers call home throughout the summer. For me, that was my seven-hour flight, which felt more like a three-month sublet. 

Where: My economy-class window seat among the back rows of the plane. A flight from Philadelphia (my layover from Richmond) to London. 

Sight: The flight map on the screen. An attempt to peer over my shoulder to see what countries’ passports my neighboring passengers were holding. Pictures of my boyfriend on my phone, who I would see the next morning after five weeks apart. Games of Solitaire and BitLife. Jane Eyre. 

Sound: Nothing except the sterile buzzing noises of an aircraft full of restless hopeful-sleepers. Unfortunately, my AirPods were malfunctioning and I was too tired to ask the flight attendant for earbuds. 

Smell: The itchy smell of old couch that permeates all airplanes and makes you feel like you did when you were a six-year-old and couldn’t sleep at your grandparents’ house. 

Touch: The velvet softness of my eye mask tight around my face. The plush interiors of my boyfriend’s Red Hot Chili Peppers hoodie I hadn’t taken off in weeks. Tightness in my shoes which I did not remove—I refused to be that person. 

Taste: For dinner: A Hershey bar, strawberry lemonade, and potato chips from the airport convenience store. For breakfast: coffee and greek yogurt. Everything else went uneaten—if you’re flying economy, nobody cares if you have allergies. Rest assured—they will not accommodate you! 

Old couch view via Author