to fight my rush and just let me through.
Getting in the plane, I found myself shocked that the plane was a lot smaller than it seemed on the outside. I guess size had a way of messing with your head.
I let myself sink into the seat. Well, as much as one could on this particular plane's hard seats - I usually was more comfortable than this. I made it. I was going to get to Switzerland and meet with my friends. I'd be able to unwind, and everything would be fine.
The captain spoke in some language I didn't understand. I was slightly confused. The Swiss spoke German. I had studied it in preparation of this trip and being able to converse with the people there. Swiss were multilingual, I remembered. German is just dominant. It didn't sound like Italian or French. Maybe it was Romansh - I never studied that.
The flight took off and I did my best to take a nap in my seat.
I dreamed of all the wondrous countries we were going to visit. How it'd be so utterly different from America. New foods, new people, all the art museums. Nothing would ruin this trip for me.
Hours later, I awoke. I looked out the window. Snow. It was June, and I was seeing snow. I knew mountains allowed such things, but the plane was descending. More Romansh over the speakers. Were we almost there?
The plane shifted, confirming my thoughts - but it was still snowy. Zurich in June was hot and wet. A freak weather phenomenon?
The plane touched down. I expected to see countless other planes lined up, just like any other big airport in the world.
This, though, was a super tiny airfield. I didn't see a single other plane.
People started filing off, one by one. They were all pale skinned, dark hair, looking rough. Business suits that looked like they were from thrift stores.
I grabbed my bag and followed them off, having my passport ready.
There wasn't even a terminal. As I stepped off the stairs, the pilot just flung them up behind me - the plane I had boarded being about the size of a private jet. It had the size, but none of the glamor. Rust covered, it was not the plane I thought I had gotten on.
I shivered - I was dressed for summer. Shorts, a tank-top, sandals. I stepped slowly, knowing sandals were never meant for snow. I glanced to the pilot. "Is - is this Zurich?" I asked.
He glared at me.
I repeated my question in German. He understood it, and his response was heavy in accent. "Zurich? No, no. This is Dolotovya."
Confirmation. I boarded the wrong plane. Very much the wrong plane. I would have froze in shock if I wasn't freezing already.
Dolotovya - I saw it in a geography book once. It was a small country high up in the mountains. I realized the root of his accent. It was Eastern European. "Um, do you continue to Zurich?"
"No, no. I just make a weekly flight to London and back."
"You can't be serious."
"Dolotovya is a very private country. Our people view travel as something only done by necessity. Demand is low, so we do not fly more than one time a week."
"I need to be in Zurich," I said. I glanced at my cellphone. It had no service here, but it still had a clock. "I needed to be there two hours ago. That's not factoring in time zones." I taxed my brain trying to remember what little I read about the country, trying to figure out how to adjust the time. I quickly gave up.
"I will return to London in a week. You can board plane then."
"How much do I have to pay to get you flying again?" I had no idea how much I could beg my father to wire me.
"Nothing you can pay me. I have another job. Piloting is something I do for extra income. I don't like flying that much, either."
"How much? Just name it."
He gave me no more attention and walked past me.
I cursed under my breath. I was shivering cold, in some bizarre foreign country.
Freezing my ass off wouldn't accomplish anything, so I followed the man. I figured I had to go through customs and the like.
Customs, though, didn't seem to be a thing. I looked around and found no office.
Getting in the plane, I found myself shocked that the plane was a lot smaller than it seemed on the outside. I guess size had a way of messing with your head.
I let myself sink into the seat. Well, as much as one could on this particular plane's hard seats - I usually was more comfortable than this. I made it. I was going to get to Switzerland and meet with my friends. I'd be able to unwind, and everything would be fine.
The captain spoke in some language I didn't understand. I was slightly confused. The Swiss spoke German. I had studied it in preparation of this trip and being able to converse with the people there. Swiss were multilingual, I remembered. German is just dominant. It didn't sound like Italian or French. Maybe it was Romansh - I never studied that.
The flight took off and I did my best to take a nap in my seat.
I dreamed of all the wondrous countries we were going to visit. How it'd be so utterly different from America. New foods, new people, all the art museums. Nothing would ruin this trip for me.
Hours later, I awoke. I looked out the window. Snow. It was June, and I was seeing snow. I knew mountains allowed such things, but the plane was descending. More Romansh over the speakers. Were we almost there?
The plane shifted, confirming my thoughts - but it was still snowy. Zurich in June was hot and wet. A freak weather phenomenon?
The plane touched down. I expected to see countless other planes lined up, just like any other big airport in the world.
This, though, was a super tiny airfield. I didn't see a single other plane.
People started filing off, one by one. They were all pale skinned, dark hair, looking rough. Business suits that looked like they were from thrift stores.
I grabbed my bag and followed them off, having my passport ready.
There wasn't even a terminal. As I stepped off the stairs, the pilot just flung them up behind me - the plane I had boarded being about the size of a private jet. It had the size, but none of the glamor. Rust covered, it was not the plane I thought I had gotten on.
I shivered - I was dressed for summer. Shorts, a tank-top, sandals. I stepped slowly, knowing sandals were never meant for snow. I glanced to the pilot. "Is - is this Zurich?" I asked.
He glared at me.
I repeated my question in German. He understood it, and his response was heavy in accent. "Zurich? No, no. This is Dolotovya."
Confirmation. I boarded the wrong plane. Very much the wrong plane. I would have froze in shock if I wasn't freezing already.
Dolotovya - I saw it in a geography book once. It was a small country high up in the mountains. I realized the root of his accent. It was Eastern European. "Um, do you continue to Zurich?"
"No, no. I just make a weekly flight to London and back."
"You can't be serious."
"Dolotovya is a very private country. Our people view travel as something only done by necessity. Demand is low, so we do not fly more than one time a week."
"I need to be in Zurich," I said. I glanced at my cellphone. It had no service here, but it still had a clock. "I needed to be there two hours ago. That's not factoring in time zones." I taxed my brain trying to remember what little I read about the country, trying to figure out how to adjust the time. I quickly gave up.
"I will return to London in a week. You can board plane then."
"How much do I have to pay to get you flying again?" I had no idea how much I could beg my father to wire me.
"Nothing you can pay me. I have another job. Piloting is something I do for extra income. I don't like flying that much, either."
"How much? Just name it."
He gave me no more attention and walked past me.
I cursed under my breath. I was shivering cold, in some bizarre foreign country.
Freezing my ass off wouldn't accomplish anything, so I followed the man. I figured I had to go through customs and the like.
Customs, though, didn't seem to be a thing. I looked around and found no office.
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