I wish I didn’t end up in this corner of the internet. I really, really wish that I didn’t feel an instinctual need to share what happened to me. But alas, such is life. I need to tell someone before I completely lose my grip on reality and end up in an asylum somewhere.

I’ll share my horrible experience with Morana Air, but first —

Anyone here know if 40 mgs of Maxalt combined with alcohol (two glasses of wine and a gin and tonic to be specific) can lead to hallucinations? I’ve tried consulting Google, but it’s not giving me the answers I want. If you know anything about mixing migraine medication and booze let me know.

I want to believe that this was all just a terrible nightmare brought on by not following the doctor’s orders. I really, really want to believe this was all just a hallucination.

But now I’m here.

And people don’t come to this corner of the web for medical advice.

So, I work a job where I travel to lots of small cities around Europe. Usually by train, sometimes by car, rarely by plane. My agency is based out of the states and sometimes, rarely, I have to fly back to headquarters at a moment’s notice. Yesterday was one of those rare days.

I also have severe migraines. I take daily prevention pills but I also carry Maxalt if the migraine slips through. They slip through pretty often. In that regard, yesterday was a completely regular day.

I don’t want to go into too much detail about what I do — but I was in a village near the Polish-Slovakian border attending to some business. My usual trips take less than a day, but this particular assignment was proving to be more time consuming than usual. I was just in the middle of tying off loose ends when the call came in.

Quick flight back. Top priority. No exceptions.

Rare, but not unprecedented. I drop everything and get in my rental. On my way to the village, I drove through the city of Poprad. Sleepy town, population of about 50K but has a rail connection. I figure I’ll catch a train to the nearest big city, jump on a connecting flight to Warsaw and then fly direct. As I drive, I call my tickets guy to sort out my airfare.

Again, I don’t want to go into what I do for work, but it’s important to note that financial oversight isn’t a strong suit of the agency I work for. One might, let’s say, deliver an expense report for a trip from London to Paris totaling around $ 450. That’s a reasonable price for a last-minute ticket. One can deliver this expense report and then, without making too much fuss, ride the $ 60 bus instead with none of the accountants being the wiser.

Me and the ticket guy have an arrangement. He finds the most expensive way to get from point A to point B and then he finds the cheapest way to get from point A to point B. With a bit of graphic design tinkering and some stretching of the truth the agency would fund the pricy travel plan, I’d take the cheap route and me and the ticket guy would split the difference.

My ticket guy quickly identified the worst way to get to the states. Poprad to Krakow by rail, Krakow to Warsaw by plane, a pointless flight to Helsinki and then a direct first-class flight to the East Coast. Total price for a last-minute booking — $ 1800. The cheapest flight was found just as quickly, but the ticket guy was hesitant to pronounce the deal:

A direct flight with Morana Air from the Poprad Airport lifting off a couple minutes past one AM — $ 115.

I didn’t expect Poprad to have an airport, let alone a trans-Atlantic flight. Neither of us had heard about Morana Air before and their online presence was slim at best — but a $ 1700 split in my favor was hard to turn down. I told the ticket guy to book the flight, calmed down his worries about getting caught in the scam and hung up the phone.

It’s in the exact moment that I hung up that the migraine hit me. I didn’t make anything of it then, but looking back I can’t help but to think of that particular headache as a warning. It was as if my body knew that a flight with Morana Air was a bad idea.

I took my first dose of Maxalt after I dropped off my rental near the Poprad city center. I still had a couple hours to kill before I’d have to make my way to the airport so I decided to stroll around Poprad’s old town and hope that the mountain air would wash out my headache.

It didn’t.

Poprad’s historical section is endearing, but small. After a couple laps around the empty streets, I settled down at a restaurant to get some food. I hoped that a second dose of Maxalt would make me feel whole again but it didn’t. The gnocchi with bacon and cheese tasted exquisite, but after a couple spoonfuls my body started to protest the meal. Not wanting to ruin my suit, I laid off the food and ordered myself a glass of wine.

The wine helped, but it didn’t help much. I followed the first glass with a second glass, paid and then grabbed a taxi to the airport.

The Poprad International Airport was just as small as I anticipated it to be and just as empty as its size would imply. Aside from me the only other travelers at the check-in desk were a bickering family of Poles that were running late for their flight. The high-pitched yelling of the matriarch of the family did little to ease my headache.

When I got to the check-in desk the young woman behind the counter was excited to speak to someone who spoke at a regular volume and even more excited to practice her English. She asked a lot of questions about what I was doing in Slovakia. They were friendly in nature but my migraine and my reluctance to talk about work kept the exchange professional. When she handed me my ticket, she said she “hoped I would have a safe travel.”

Her hopes were deeply misplaced.

With a trans-Atlantic flight being that cheap I presumed that there would be crowds of people trying to hop on, but aside from the loud Polish couple arguing with the attendants at one of the gates I was seemingly the only traveler in the airport. I arrived three hours early, as is recommended for international flights, but I presumed other travelers would fill in over time.

They didn’t. I would be the only passenger on the Morana Air flight.

The Poprad Airport has two runways and three terminals and is significantly smaller than the city’s old town. I walked around the airport trying to focus on the breathing exercises my doctor recommended to deal with the migraines but they were of little help. As I took my laps around the airport, I’d occasionally see the hopeful glimpses of the duty-free store employees awaiting a potential customer. With each circle around the airport that I made more and more of the stores shuttered their windows. By the time my legs started to hurt the lights in the airport were turned down and only one business was opened — the bar of the VIP lounge.

It cost me €12 to enter the lounge. I paid an additional €5 for an ice-filled gin and tonic. Unlike the young woman at the check-in desk the bartender had zero interest in speaking to me and did nothing to hide the fact that he wanted to go home. I did not mind. All I wanted to do was to hold the cold glass to my temples and catch the gentlest of buzzes from the gin. When my migraine didn’t subside, I took a third dose of Maxalt.

At exactly midnight I was kicked out of the lounge with stern words of “Lounge close. Go home.” I did not complain or ask for a refund for my €12, the headache ensured I was solely focused on getting into the plane and falling asleep.

When the lounge shut down the fluorescents above were turned down even dimmer. Walking through the empty airport in near darkness was somewhat unsettling, but by then my migraine had grown to a strength which made complex thought impossible. I was just happy that the fluorescents weren’t burning my eyes.

I sat in the dim blue light of Gate 2 for the last thirty minutes of my departure time. There was no plane, or staff, or other passengers and the boarding door was closed. I should have been worried but the breathing exercises kept me calm and focused on the pain. I just sat there at the dark and empty gate looking at the snow capped mountains in the distance. I tried to imagine myself at the peak. I tried to visualize the snow and wind cooling down the inside of my skull and easing my stomach.

That’s when I heard the boarding door creak open. Somehow, in that mix of pain and booze and medicine I had completely zoned out. In my fugue state a plane had arrived. The departure screen had lit up with an announcement:

Flight AD1347 Destination: Norfolk International — Morana Air.

There still was no staff at the gate and I was the only one at the terminal but the doors were open and the plane was there. I was confused, I was definitely confused — but I was more concerned about getting in my seat and passing out.

The Morana Air plane made the small airport look even smaller. The airbus was jet black with the exception of a scrawled logo on its tail and it was bigger than any plane I had ever witnessed. The sheer size of the machine didn’t dawn upon me until I made my way through the jetway and entered the plane.

As if the entire baggage hold were taken out, I had to walk down a flight of steps to reach the seats. The luggage containers were impossibly high up and the entire ceiling of the plane reminded me more of a cathedral rather than a mode of transportation. There was no staff to greet me, nor were there any other travelers. The only suggestion of life on the plane was the music coming from the speakers. It was quiet and slow and had a strange repeating baseline that kept on changing in tempo.

I, once again, found this very strange. I found the whole affair strange enough to shuffle up and down the plane searching for a member of staff or another passenger to assure me that I am at least aboard the right aircraft. No living soul presented itself and soon enough my confusion was overtaken by the throbbing pain inside my skull. I sat down in my assigned window seat and tucked my suitcase under the seat in front of me and tried some more breathing exercises.

I kept on hoping that someone would walk down the aisle, that I could ask for some painkillers or at least a splash of whiskey — but no dice. Only the weird music was there to keep me company. Not knowing what else to do I continued the deep breathing exercises and gazed out of the window at the plane’s massive black wing. On the edge of the wing, blinking irregularly, sat a blood red signal light.

It did not ease my migraine.

For a couple of minutes, I considered getting up knocking on the pilot’s door. I was fully aware of how strange the situation was, but the migraine made the prospect of walking up the aisle to chat with the pilot seem just as absurd. Unable to balance the debate in my sore skull, I buckled my seatbelt and committed to staying put.

The moment the metal on my lap clinked the plane started to move. The eerie music crackled out of the speakers and was replaced with a static drenched voice. The pilot’s speech was intelligible. At first, I thought it was because of the quality of the speakers, but it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t speaking English.

I waited for a translation of the announcement but it never came. This — again — bothered me, but my body was drained enough to give up. I just hoped I could get some shut eye and wake up somewhere above the Atlantic without my brain sizzling.

I woke up much earlier.

The first shake barely woke me. The overhead lights had been turned off and only the dim shine of the emergency exit remained. Outside, beyond the red glow of the flashing signal light the Tatra mountains stood. Still half asleep, with the migraine slowly making itself known — all I could do was stare at the snow tipped peaks and dark valleys past the window.

The realization took a while to click, but when it hit — it hit with nauseating force:

The plane was flying far too low.

A terrible groan came from the bottom of the plane. The floor vibrated against my feet, as if something had been scraped against the slim undercarriage of the airbus. The plane was flying too low and we were passing over a forest.

The sudden rush of fear tightened my throat. I tried as hard as I could to yell for help, to alert someone — anyone — to the fact that the plane was in danger of crashing — yet all I could do is whimper. My whimpers were quickly overpowered by more dark scratches against the hull of the plane.

There was no turbulence warning from the pilot. The seats around me were empty. I was alone in a dark strange airplane and I was certain that all that awaited me was a fiery death. Not knowing what else to do I kept my seatbelt buckled and braced for impact.

The plane swayed and shook and the floor beneath my feet continued to vibrate. I’ve never understood people who are scared of flying; it was, after all, less dangerous than driving on a highway.

I never understood those people — until I found myself in that dark plane.

Suddenly, the idea that this massive heap of metal was even in the sky felt discomforting. All of mankind’s advances in aviation technology felt like a fluke. I became certain that I was sitting in a machine that was an affront to God and that I personally would be held responsible for man’s plane-related sins. I held my head in my hands and prepared for the dark rumbles beneath my feet to tear me down into the darkness below. I do not know if I cowered for seconds or minutes — time became completely irrelevant.

All I know is that eventually the noises stopped. Once the scratching had subsided all I could hear was the gentle hum of the plane’s engine and, beneath that hum, ever so gently, the eerie music that had played when I entered the airbus. I raised my head, hoping to see the plane high above the clouds.

I was sorely disappointed.

I wanted to scream, but my panic only manifested itself as a coughing fit. Outside of my window, bathed in the glow of the moon and the blinking signal light sat the mammoth wing of the plane. All along its length the metal was dented with signs of terminal impact. Beneath the broken wings, far too close for comfort, I could see the crowns of trees.

I was nauseous with fear and my fingers felt like foreign digits, but I still managed to unbuckle my seatbelt. I thought my terror had reached its limit, but just as I pulled myself out of the row of seats my fear reached new heights.

A loud pop shook the entire machine. On the other wing of the plane I could see the engine flare up with smoke and flames. The origin of the pop quickly became apparent —

Geese.

I could see them from my own window. A flock of them was flying right next to the plane completely unaware of the danger. Two of the fowls got bumped off course by the wing and then, a third, entered the massive engine.

With another loud pop a second fire broke out. Clutching at a hope for survival that seemed insane — I dashed up the airbus towards the cockpit. With all my strength I slammed at the metal door. In my sheer despair I even managed to find my voice. Words were more difficult to grasp, but the screaming and banging was enough to convey my message —

The sole passenger of the plane was concerned about the imminent crash.

I slammed at the cockpit door like a wild animal, but my cries were ignored. With each slam of my first that quiet music from the speakers grew louder and louder. Soon enough my wails for help were joined by more dark scratches against the body of the plane.

We were passing through another forest.

The aircraft shook and groaned and the music from the speakers rolled on with its unsteady beat, but I did not relent. I kept on slamming the door and screaming and begging for a way out. The world around me was descending back into chaos, but I did not relent.

I did not relent until I felt a gust of wind at my back.

With an unearthly metal crack, a part of the airbus gave away. Behind me a scar cut across the metal wall of the plane. Bits of burning wood stuck out of the fresh hole like terrible birthday candles. With another deafening roar, a strip of wall to the right of me gave way for a burning branch that almost felled me.

I fell to my knees and crawled away from the burning wood, but I couldn’t bring myself back to my feet. The airplane was swaying from side to side with nauseating violence and my heart was balancing an incoming feint with bursts of primal adrenaline.

Like an epileptic infant I crawled through the chaos towards the nearest seats and buckled myself in. As numb and shaking as my fingers were, they worked quickly. I chose the center aisle seat. It seemed safest that way.

Once I was in my seat my consciousness drifted further. There was nothing else I could do. All that was left was to watch the plane be ripped apart by the forest it was flying through. With each removed scrap of metal, the discomforting music on the speakers grew louder and louder.

I braced. I braced and I prayed for my end to come quickly.

It did not.

Instead, the plane shook like mad and the music grew louder and my chest compressed with unsustainable anxiety. I tried focusing on the music, but it made me feel ill. I tried to focus on my breath but it was far too shallow to grasp. The only thing that provided escape from my terror was the migraine. It was still there. Hidden by the panic and terror of the ongoing plane crash I was able to ignore it. Yet as I braced and prayed for my end to come quickly — the familiar pain became more pronounced.

I focused down on the burning in my skull, taking apart each and every unpleasant sensation that I could think of. I did the exact opposite of what the breathing exercises told me to do. I held on to my thoughts of agony and squeezed as hard as I could. I let go of all perception and simmered down my existence to nothing but a headache.

With my diminishing internal monologue, I tried to describe my pain with as precise words as possible. I composed metaphors and similes and poems that transformed my migraine from something that could be tempered with Maxalt to an insurmountable disease.

I reveled in the poison behind my eyes until it took me whole.

Somehow, in the middle of a plane crash, I managed to pass out.

I — again — would like to believe that the entire flight was a hallucination, or a break from reality or whatever other explanation would make it possible for me to discount the event entirely. I was dosing way above my doctor’s recommendations. I did have a particularly severe migraine attack. I was already highly stressed from work. There were a thousand explanations for why I might’ve misinterpreted reality while I was getting on the plane in Poprad.

What is impossible to discount was that the flight that I took arrived at its destination. The panic and pain and sheer insanity of the aircraft pacified me, but when I woke I was exactly where I passed out — buckled into seat 6A of Morana Air Flight AD1347

Had I woken up in the strange plane I boarded in Poprad International I would have no doubt the entire affair was a fabulation, yet the plane I woke in had clearly seen a terrible night. The carpet had been matted in ash and mud and straw. Where the tree branches cut through the walls the night prior now jagged scars of metal remained. The aftermath of the crash was obvious, but the plane remained whole.

So did I.

My immediate instinct was to run — to head straight for the door and never turn back. That is exactly what I did, I left the cursed airbus as fast as my legs would allow. I was already a couple steps into the jetway when the realization dawned on me.

Freedom was just a couple of steps away. A part of me was sure I could even hear the bustle of Norfolk in the distance — but I knew I couldn’t leave just yet.

My suitcase.

All I wanted to do was to run, to report my suitcase got stolen and never turn back to that plane again. But I knew that retrieving was my only option. The agency I work for might skim through expense reports but they take info leaks deadly serious.

When I entered the airbus a second time the arched ceiling felt twice as high. That discomforting funeral music was back on the speakers but this time it seemed darker, more tired. As quickly as I could, I made my way to my original assigned seat. My suitcase had made it through the flight, but it had been singed by whatever fire had burnt in the plane the night prior.

I wasted no time sprinting back to freedom.

Behind the desk of the gate was a boy of no older than twenty wearing an airport uniform that seemed to have been passed down by an older brother. When I dashed out of the jetway he had been scrolling on his phone. My appearance clearly startled him, but the moment we made eye contact he went back to scrolling on his phone.

I did not try to communicate. I simply wanted to get as far away from the airbus as I could.

It wasn’t until I had gotten a rental and started the drive to headquarters that I called my ticket guy. My recollection of the flight to him through speaker phone was undoubtedly less eloquent but differed little from the account I have just written.

I don’t think he believed me, but even if he did — what would have changed?

There's an all hands meeting happening in thirty minutes and I can’t let myself be consumed by what happened last night. I hope that someone will be able to explain away my hallucination with a mixture of stress and pills and booze. If not, I’ll just take my own word for it.

My suitcase is indeed burnt, but once I get some down time I’ll get a new one. All of this is best forgotten. All of this is best left in the past.

One lesson remains though, dear internet stranger:

Never book a flight with Morana Air.