I met a man on a flight to Frankfurt, and I think it may change my life.
We were crammed in seats so far back you couldn’t see the moist towelettes and eye pillows of first class, browsing through movie selections and trying not to make awkward elbow advances across the center rest, when a man from India asked me what I was planning to do in Germany.
“I’m actually flying on to Budapest,” I told him, struggling to open the package of pretzels that international flights still give for free. “And then I’m driving from Hungary to Slovakia.”
“That will be a nice weekend trip,” he said as if he boarded planes to Europe every day. “What will you do there?”
“I’m doing an photojournalism internship.”
The phrase felt foreign; I kept pinching my arm fat to make sure it was really happening. I’d stopped telling friends and acquaintances…
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