I remember this day in New York, summer 2019, vividly.
My cousin and I had planned this juicy weekend getaway to Curlfest, where we were going to vibe out with our fellow naturalistas. We booked our spa day, hit up Curlfest, went to a comedy show, checked out a few restaurants, and topped it all off with a helicopter ride as the cherry on top.
We get there, go through the little safety briefing, and we're ready for takeoff. My cell phone battery was on 1000%, ready to get that iconic feet-hanging-out-of-the-helicopter shot. It was a whole moment on Insta. Anyway, we’re standing in line. A couple people ahead of us and then it’s finally our turn. Next thing you know, there are like 5 other people waiting by the door. Wait. How we all gon' fit in there? How many seats are in this thing? This was my first helicopter ride, so I didn’t know the logistics, but I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t signing up for the middle seat. Nope. Not happening. I wanted my moment—feet out, wind in my hair, the whole deal.
Man, when I tell you we were packed in there like sardines! We won the battle, but lost the war. We got the seats we wanted, but comfort? Literally out the window. We had to ride perched outside the whole time. Even though we had a sliver of leg room and were only tethered by a harness I wasn’t fully trusting, I still felt sorry for the girl stuck in the middle seat. Could you imagine? We made brief eye contact, but I quickly looked away.