15,259 Miles Later, Part II

When V and I deplaned in Seoul after the longest flight we’d ever taken, we had one goal: to find a pet relief station for our poor cat. He had already been holding it for exactly 24 hours since V had packed him into the carrier for the taxi ride to Dulles. Since then, they’d flown to Atlanta, where they met me, and we’d flown together on to Seoul.

We weren’t sure how much longer the cat could hold it. We’d tried to get him to pee in Atlanta, but he’s a cat. It’s not like we could explain to him, “Hey, we know there’s no litter in this makeshift box. But this is your last chance for a very long time, so at least give it a try.”

And still, before we could search for a pet relief area, we had to proceed through Incheon Airport’s international transfer security check — a surprisingly chaotic process.

Seoul

At security, passengers were grabbing bins and shoving their stuff through with no sense of queuing or keeping one’s own bins together. The officers required us to put the empty pet carrier through baggage screening, meaning the cat had to come out. V hurried through the metal detector, holding our cat out in front of him with both hands.

The cat, who doesn’t allow himself to be picked up or handled hardly at all, looked terrified and frozen, his legs splayed out in four different directions. His pupils were so dialated, his eyes turned from green to nearly black. It was the closest he came to escaping during the whole trip; his Apple Air Tag wasn’t mounted on his harness, but in a side pocket of the carrier. I was surprised security allowed us to do this, let alone required it. There was a language barrier, and it was such a scramble we weren’t able to ask for a private screening.

We also didn’t have boarding passes or seat assignments and were changing airlines from Delta to Korean Air. The last time we’d had internet in Atlanta, the Korean Air app hadn’t allowed us to check in.

One of the security screening officers took issue with our lack of boarding passes and asked me to show our itineraries. Fortunately, I had asked my dad to print them out before he dropped me at the airport—just in case. I pulled the itineraries from my roller bag, and she inspected them carefully. Then, without a word, she hurried to the other side of the room, taking our passports with her, and began recording our biodata in a notebook.

I quickly followed her. Where do we go? I asked her. She laughed the uncomfortable laugh of someone who doesn’t understand the question.

Gate? I tried hopefully, with a smile.

She nodded and said something I didn’t understand.

Thank you, thank you. I kept smiling politely as we gathered everything up and got the heck out of there.

V and I proceeded directly to our gate to check in. Since boarding was still a couple of hours away and the gate desk area was empty, we turned our attention to finding a pet relief station.

But that search was also in vain—there wasn’t one. How could such a basic amenity be missing in a place that otherwise seemed to value comfort and organization?

Our backup idea was to stop by a transit hotel inside the terminal. But we arrived only to be informed animals were “not allowed.”

Having twice struck out, we started back to the gate. By this time I was frustrated and worried. The experience caused V and I to bicker, as we were both overly tired and concerned for the well-being of our beloved pet.

It felt like a no-win situation. I remember having such an excellent experience in this airport in 2017, however, my luck had seemingly run out. As other passengers strolled the terminal with their iced drinks and shopping bags from high-end boutiques and the duty free, all I could do was wonder how anyone transits this airport with a cat or dog. I didn’t see a single other pet anywhere.

Then we walked past a women’s restroom, and on a hunch, I glanced inside. Just inside the entrance, I noticed a family bathroom with its own separate door. Seeing no women in sight, V and I quickly slipped in.

With a toilet, a sink, a floor drain, and a fully closing door, we were able to take our cat out of his carrier and let him explore safely. We had brought along a small snap-together litter box, but unfortunately the litter itself hadn’t made it into V’s backpack—back in Dulles, a Delta representative had counted the cat carrier as one of his carry-ons and forced him to check his small roller bag.

I’m not so sure the cat would have used any new litter box setup on demand anyway, but we had to try.

V and I stayed in that hot, enclosed little bathroom with him for over 20 minutes, trying to be calm and not transfer more stress to him. He drank a little water and ate part of a treat, but was obviously overwhelmed and scared of his surroundings. He soon retreated back into the safety of his carrier and the opportunity had passed.

We got all the way back to our gate for a second time before some bad news dawned on us. Now with less than an hour to boarding, still no airline personnel were in the gate area. It could only mean one thing: after re-clearing security, we had somehow missed a transfer desk.

Initially I didn’t want to go look for it. But V reminded me about a similar situation that had happened to us in Austria in summer 2022. My stepdaughter A, V, and I had been returning to the United States after a few weeks of traveling together through the Balkans. After arriving into Vienna from Skopje, I had disregarded standing in the transfer desk line to obtain a boarding pass, assuming I could just get one at the gate. Then when boarding began, gate staff directed passengers without boarding passes back to the transfer desk. A rush ensued as there was a huge line and we came uncomfortably close to missing our international flight home. That was fun.

Anxious to avoid such foolishness again, V and I dragged all our carry-ons through the terminal once more in search of a transfer desk. We asked at an Information booth, not holding out much hope after the same place hadn’t had a clue about pet relief areas.

This time they had an answer for us, though: it turned out the Korean Air transfer desk was over 30 gates away. In the opposite direction from our gate, of course!

I was dismayed. Calculating the time, we began to really hurry, still unsure where we were going. We went up escalators, down escalators, and around corners. My wrist ached from trying to get my roller bag to roll straight without knocking my duffel bag off the top. I ran over my right foot for about the 27th time on the trip.

Close to exasperation, we finally found the transfer desk. (Not close to the sign though – in that place there had only been a cafe. Because of course.) Fortunately there was hardly any line and we were soon assisted.

A airline representative informed me with a wide smile that their staff had found a battery in one of my checked bags and had removed it for me. And there was no way to get it back. Neat! I suddenly realized that was my $100 Anker portable power source, with one of my charging cords hanging out of it, and I felt even more annoyed by the growing stupidity of this day.

At least we successfully walked out of the transfer desk area with our boarding passes. We had been assigned seats in a row of two; it’s always nice not having to deal with a third passenger, particularly when the cat carrier doesn’t fit neatly under the seat ahead.

Seoul to Rangoon

Hurrying all the way back to our gate, we arrived hot and tired just as boarding was about to begin. We approached the desk and I asked the gate agents if we could board early (but after wheelchairs and families with small children) because we had a scared cat. They weren’t inclined to let us, even when I showed our diplomatic passports. But after a little persistent politeness on my part, they begrudgingly allowed it. What is wrong with this place? I asked myself, feeling like I was missing something. Travel is difficult, and I was really just trying to get to my destination with a minimum of aggravation — like everyone else.

Once we were settled on the plane and I had secured my overly heavy carry-ons in the overhead bins without being confronted by the onlooking flight attendant, I felt a sigh of relief. I had made it onto the final PCS flight without encountering any serious issues.

Without an untenable seat. Without an attendant insisting I gate-check a carry-on full of things I couldn’t let out of my sight. Now that nothing I’d worried about had happened, I felt we were in the clear. Sweating and tired, I sank into my seat. All that was left was to mentally prepare for another six hours in the air and listen to podcasts.

Shortly after takeoff, though, we realized our cat had finally wet himself and his carrier. We discussed it, and waited until the plane had reached cruising altitude and the captain had turned off the fasten seatbelt light before bringing the carrier to the confines of the rear lavatory to change the lining and try to clean up before it soaked into the carpet.

However, a flight attendant stopped us in the galley from going into the bathroom, saying in broken English that it was against airline regulations. Assuming her concern was that we not let the cat out, I reassured her with a friendly smile that he wouldn’t escape and we just needed to clean up the waste so it wouldn’t be a nuisance to others or to the plane.

V went into the bathroom with the soft carrier and I stood right outside the closed door. A funny look of hurt and anger crossed the flight attendant’s face and she broke eye contact with me and walked away.

Waiting outside the bathroom door, I felt relieved V was able to clean up the carrier. I also felt grateful that he had thought to line the carrier with a large absorbent pee pad for just this kind of accident. At least now we wouldn’t have to worry anymore that the cat would be miserable or get a bladder infection.

The flight attendants busied themselves preparing for the drink service. I watched them diligently preparing the carts and tried to stay out of their way in the narrow rear galley as they ignored me completely. After a few minutes, the bathroom door folded inward and V appeared in the doorway, looking more relaxed.

Just then, a male flight attendant materialized from the rear of the plane and, in a raised tone of voice, told us to “sit down” and that it was our “final warning.”

My mouth dropped slightly open. I was dumbfounded. The flight attendant launched into a loud lecture that we had been told we couldn’t take the cat carrier out from under the seat under any circumstances and that it was against airline policy, which we were not following.

Holding up my hands in a conciliatory manner, I explained to him in a neutral tone that we hadn’t understood that, but that we’d flown from the east coast of the United States and after over 20 hours of flights, there had been no pet relief at Incheon. I went on to tell him we tried to get the cat to go anyway, but that he hadn’t until we boarded, and that we couldn’t leave the carrier drenched in urine for a six-hour flight.

Again escalating his tone, he interrupted, disregarding everything we were saying. With no compassion, he nearly shouted at us that it didn’t matter, regardless, that the flight attendants were just doing their jobs, and that we needed to follow their instructions.

Wondering if it was possible to have any reasonable conversation with a person in such a state, I quietly asked him if the airline’s policy was to leave a pet that had defecated or vomited under the seat to stink and be a nuisance to other passengers. He again warned us to sit down without answering my question.

In disbelief, we returned to our seats, wondering what in the world had just happened. I could feel the people in the rows behind us staring at the back of my head. Did the airline really expect us to ignore our pet’s health and hygiene—and the comfort of everyone around us—for the entire flight? It made no sense. We had done the logical thing, the option that was best for everyone, yet we were treated as if we had tried to breach the cockpit.

The seatbelt sign remained off for most of the flight, yet when V tried to use the lavatory, a flight attendant told him to return to his seat. Later, when I attempted to retrieve medication from my bag in the overhead bin, another flight attendant went out of her way to order me to sit back down. What made this especially frustrating was the inconsistency: the aisle was clear, and other passengers were moving about freely—retrieving their own belongings or using the lavatories—even when the seatbelt sign was on. The rules seemed to apply only to us.

We discussed how they were unfairly treating us as problem passengers. We were genuinely embarrassed, angry, and overall confused as to why this had happened. After all, we were U.S. government employees traveling on orders, on an international relocation move, to a war zone. Why would we create a conflict with the only airline allowing in-cabin pets going to Burma?

V was so upset he refused to let them serve him any dinner. (Side note: The following week, I filed a complaint against the airline and to date have heard nothing back.)

As the plane landed, I felt a mix of relief that we would never have to see any of these hostile flight crew members again and nervousness that we had finally arrived in Rangoon. It was already 8:30 p.m., two calendar nights after I’d left my dad in Portland.

V and I would still have to navigate immigration, baggage claim, customs, and being expedited across the city to our temporary lodging before we could call it a night. As we deplaned, I smiled and was extremely friendly to each member of the crew, feeling determined to not let the situation get my goat.

As we walked onto the flight bridge, a wave of hot, humid air hit me in the face. We had made it to Rangoon.

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