The low point of my recent trip to Los Angeles occurred during the initial cross-country flight from DC.

My sister, Kaye, and I were excited to score bulkhead seats on our full flight.  As we boarded the plane, Kaye settled into the window seat and I sat in the middle.  A few moments later our aisle seat neighbor arrived.

He looked harmless enough.  Quiet, recently showered, and politely positioned on his side of the armrest, he seemed to be everything I asked for in a plane neighbor.

Then he proceeded to breathe.

Admittedly, I’m sensitive to smells, but my neighbor had stunningly bad breath.

My neighbor had breath like he had died a month ago from severe halitosis only to be resurrected just in time for our flight.

Every few minutes he would sigh and I would swoon, struggling to retain my composure (and consciousness.)  It got worse after he fell asleep; with his mouth agape, his dental musk flowed freely to the surrounding area.

Trapped in my adjacent seat, I didn’t have much recourse.

I turned my head.  I positioned my fan to blow towards him, but this was laughably inadequate.

I tried to physically distance myself from him; I’m sure that the flight attendants thought Kaye and I were a romantic couple since I had my face buried in her shoulder for much of the trip.

When my neighbor declined a glass of water, I almost started to cry.

What could I do?  Politeness and a language barrier (his English was apparently minimal) prevented me from directly registering my complaint.  He wasn’t American, so I was pretty sure he wouldn’t take a stick of gum were I to offer.  Subtle hints and passive aggression obviously weren’t working.

I pondered his situation.  Based on the odor of decay emanating from his mouth, this wasn’t a short-term issue.  All of us have our bad breath moments, or even days, but this was clearly the result of a lifetime of dental neglect.

He appeared to be traveling with his family; had no one ever thought to pull this guy aside and suggest a trip to the dentist, or a least a Tic Tac?

After putting up with hours of my complaining, Kaye agreed to switch seats with me. Once she got to the middle seat, she realized her tragic mistake and wanted to switch back, but there was no way in hell I was going there.  I had enough to deal with, since I was pretty sure I was showing early signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Somehow we made it to LA.  We bolted off the plane and hurried toward the fresh air of the parking lot.  We soaked up the palm trees and admired the beautiful white teeth of the passers-by.

I had never been so glad to be in a place that valued outward appearances.  Viva la superficialite!

I’d made it through the flight, and I learned a valuable lesson: I will never, never fly mintless again.