We boarded the plane at JFK and then waited. And waited. And waited. The full cause of the delay remains unclear, but the weather at least contributed a little. We finally pulled away from the jetway and I heard a phone ring. It was the woman behind me, who answered the call and started a loudly whispered, and extensive conversation. Amongst other things she said, “isn’t it amazing – I’m on an international flight and talking on the phone!”
I just thought, “Not so amazing. A) you’re on the ground and B) your phone is supposed to be in airplane mode but you probably have no idea how to do that.” My primary consolation was that we were soon to be over the ocean where her battery would burn itself out in a futile search for a nonexistent signal. My spiteful inner self was looking forward to her having no battery on arrival in Milan. This thought kept me warm through the flight.
The time for taxiing was indescribably long. Seriously – it was over an hour, which left us taking off over two hours behind schedule. Once aloft, meal service went especially quickly. I think the flight crew had enough of us already.
Options were chicken with Mexican rice, pesto pasta, and chicken salad. I choose the chicken with rice, whereas G chose the pasta. The latter was described as, “OK.” Mine was similarly OK.
Yup that’s the food. Frankly, by the time the food arrived I was famished and dove in. There were a few bland but not over-cooked shrimp, a miniature salad, a roll, and of course the chicken. The plating was somewhat casserole-ish. A mess of chicken pieces, rice, cheese, corn, and red sauce. The flavor was ok. The redeeming factor was a decent amount of heat. All of this with a French chardonnay from a box.
I finished up with the chocolate chip blondie which was yummy. I saved the cheese for later in the flight.
Finally, they brought after dinner drinks and I had a cognac. Then sleep took me.
I slept fitfully and was up and down repeatedly. It didn’t help that the already-well-loved woman seated behind me kept kicking my seat and complaining about the leg room This latter proved to be an irony, as she was probably at least a foot shorter than me (and I didn’t have any particular problem). Le sigh…
Somewhere over France we began second meal service (ie breakfast). This was a rubber English Muffin with rubber egg. I swear, I’ve seen our nutritionists teach with this exact same object. There was yogurt with granola, and the worlds cutest little spoon. The fig bar was both adorable and tasty. And there was OJ.
We landed, and finally passed eaisly through passport control and customs. The latter really means nothing; for anybody who has been here, you understand that customs really seems to exist in name only.
And we are in Italy!
butterblogger 
Did you try throwing a drink at her? I hear that helps on flights.