On my last leg flying to Honolulu, I stalked Kobo, a Japanese fast food counter, which was near my gate.
Fast food at the airport. The logical non-food related part of my brain, which is a very small area, warned not to go there. However, the sound of "chicken teriyaki", "rice," and "today's special" resonated within me.
I wasn't very hungry, despite having only snacked on a small bag of baby carrots and celery that I packed, and nibbled on 3 delicious packets of Biscoff cookies over a span of 9 hours.
I plopped down $7.00 and waddled over to a wobbly metal table. After a couple of bites, I felt a tingling sensation on my tongue. Another bite of the sweet, gingery sauce revealed the culprit was likely salt, lots and lots of salt.
Two more licks of salt and 4 more bites of gooey rice were all I could take. I sealed up the take-out container, got up, and tossed the container in the rubbish can with a thud -- guilt for throwing away my money and food; anger because I knew better; and relief to be rid of that mess.
Asleep through much of the flight, I had dreams of being parched, only surfacing when the stainless oasis bumped along.
I have come to accept that:
1) my lapse in judgment was a result of the carbs' siren song enchanting me;
2) flights only take off from gates at the very end of the hall.
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport