My childhood was a mix of funny and unusual experiences. Some of these involved my adventures as an “unaccompanied minor”, traveling alone when I was a prepubescent kid to and from the Philippines during the summer and Christmas breaks, and wearing that silly tag around my neck (part of SOP they said). A flight attendant would always be assigned to look out for me throughout the trip, accompanying me from check in to check out.

“Is there anything you need?”, she'd always ask. I would shake my head, too shy to speak. But after she leaves I would remember. I always had to have this accessory in planes for emergency purposes. I knew myself. I knew my limits. The next time a stewardess passed by I would summon my skills and muster that “I want something” look on my face, a technique I mastered quite early growing up as the eldest grandchild. Ha ha, it always worked! She would come over and ask me what I wanted. “Vomit bag,” was my ready answer. She'll come back and put a
disposable barf bag in the seat pouch in front of me. “I need two more”. With a sly grin on her face, she'd oblige. If there’s one thing that’s certain in this world, it’s that I will surely suffer from air sickness during a flight, the number of which depends on the length of the journey, and the weather.

One time I was seated next to a loudmouth, talkative balikbayan (returning Filipino) from Tucson, Arizona. I’ve forgotten his name but can still vaguely recall his face and that animated look he had when he talked. He kept yapping from the time we reached cruising altitude would go on even if I ignored him. He talked about his trip to the Philippines and his kids in Arizona, complete with visual aid as he produced about a dozen pictures from his briefcase. Wow, he came prepared, I thought. Then he saw my travel documents as the stewardess was checking them in preparation for disembarkation. “Oh, so you have a diplomatic passport! Why?”, he asked inquisitively. I told him about my dad’s job and his current foreign post. But he was not satisfied. He kept asking me questions and I felt like a celebrity being grilled on gossip TV! Will somebody just silence this guy for harassing a twelve year old, I was tempted to shout out. Other passengers were already starting to stare and it was getting embarrassing. Do these seats have an eject button? Then the barf bags caught my eye and a light bulb clicked in my head. I reached for a bag and forced myself to vomit. Success! I barfed a mouthful and my annoying seatmate never bothered me again throughout the trip.

Another time I was seated next to a middle-aged Canadian woman. Compared to the talkative balikbayan, she was a hundred times more pleasant. For one thing, she started by giving me chocolates, two big bars of Bourneville, Cadbury’s dark variety! I liked her style. I was ready to answer all her questions after that. She showed me pictures of her adopted Korean son and two dogs back home, and we chatted endlessly throughout the flight. That was the only flight that I can recall when I didn’t use the vomit bag. Maybe it was because I was so comfortable in the company of my newfound Canadian friend, or maybe I just didn’t want to barf up the Bourneville!

But my favorite perks in my trips were the upgrades. As foreign service dependents, we were entitled to fifty percent discount on airfare at Philippine Airlines then. Naturally, economy class was the only option for my prudent Pinoy parents. But when there are vacancies in first class (which was always), the flight attendant would upgrade me. I reveled in all that space, the wider seats, the unlimited food and drinks (more barf bags please). Wow, all that luxurious comfort for half the price of an economy ticket!

When puberty set in, I grew taller, even taller than my dad. Though I still traveled alone, and was still legally a minor, they never treated me as an “unaccompanied minor” again. I was on my own. No more ridiculous tag hanging from my neck, no more pampering during the flight. I still got upgraded most of the time but I missed all that attention and fuss I used to get from those lovely and sweet-smelling stewardesses!

Note: The preceding is a repost of an article I made about a year ago with some minor changes. I was rummaging through my boxes of knickknacks earlier when I found an old neck tag I used to wear when I flied alone as a child, bringing flashbacks of my adventures as an 'unaccompanied minor'.

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