On any given day, in any given airport terminal, Hudson News is a place to peruse. To get a water. To spend twenty dollars on a pair of Gumi headphones because you forgot airplanes only have the old headphone jack, which means your iPhone ones are useless, and damn it, how do I open this package without scissors?
But October 14 isn’t any given day, and Newark Airport Terminal B isn’t any given terminal. On this day, in this terminal, Singapore Airlines Flight 21 (SQ21) is about to take flight for the second time ever. It will traverse across the Atlantic and the entirety of Eurasia, covering 9,200 nautical miles. The fly time? 18 hours and 45 minutes—the longest flight in the world. And I was on it.
Well, if I could get out of this interminable Hudson News line. It snaked around the store, 25 people deep, their arms strained with bags and cans and papers.
“I’ve heard this is magic,” a wife tells her husband, picking up a sleep aid with sleek packaging. He hesitates. “But what if we take it, and something happens . . . up there?”
A man plopped down five one-liter Dasani bottles in front of a flustered cashier. “Could you get this all in one bag?”
SQ 21 is 18 hours and 45 minutes, but let’s say “19.” Because 19 is what was whispered around the terminal, in the boarding line, and by the two guys having a plane aisle photoshoot in navy blue t-shirts that said “Longest Flight in the World.” Bringing back this flight—which was discontinued in 2013—is a technological feat for Singapore Air, and one of the reasons (in addition to their luxurious amenities and top-notch service) they are ranked the number one airline in the world.
But it’s also a test of human fortitude, physically—you are confined to a hurtling metal tube for 19 hours, and mentally—you are confined to a hurtling metal tube for 19 hours.
I'd always prided myself on my low-maintenance flying style: I find my seat and stay in it for the duration of a flight. For food, I scarf down a couple of Cliff Bars and call it a day. Then I watch a trashy movie or two, sleep a couple hours, and spend the rest of the flight gazing out the window. But this journey was certain to bring new challenges that would question my easy endurance.
As the hours passed, I took notes on my feelings and surroundings, in part for an added activity, but also to share a sense of what it's like aboard the longest flight in the world.
Hour One: I’m on an Airbus A350-900, a state-of-the-art aircraft that can fly over 20 hours without stopping. But the biggest geek-out factor for me? The quiet. Take off isn’t a raging, rambling rush down the runway. It’s more like someone whispered “Wingardium Leviosa,” and flicked our plane 35,000 feet up. In the air, I can’t hear the engine roar, but I can hear my neighbor flip through The Wall Street Journal.
I settle in to my pod. The main difference between business class and premium economy class (the only cabin types on this flight) is the giant grey divider that separates me from my little old lady neighbor. And I don't really have a seat, so much a La-Z Boy that extends out into a cot. Above me, violet mood lighting pulsates—a measure, I learn later, that helps with jet lag. I glance at one of my pod’s shelves. There’s a blanket, headphones, a toiletries kit, and some compression socks. Will I become one of those people who take their shoes off on an airplane? Only time will tell.
Hour Two: I’m 45 minutes into Ocean’s 8 when the first course of food arrives: sautéed prawns on quinoa salad, with semi-dried tomato and snow pea tendril. It one of seven dishes I’ll have on my flight—not taking into account the assorted bread, assorted cheese, and assorted fruit carts that flight attendants routinely push down the aisles. Other dishes on the menu? Baked cheese-herb crusted halibut fillet, seared lamb loin with cabernet sauce, lobster mac and cheese, fennel and orange cured salmon trout, salted butter caramel cake, and pineapple mousse.
Singapore Airlines partnered with Canyon Ranch to create a special menu focusing on simplicity, nutrition, and hydration. I, however, am skeptical that beets and cauliflower can stop my inevitable descent into a blubber-human from Wall-E. So cherry chocolate chip ice cream it is.
Hour Three: Have we talked about the wine? Because let’s talk about the wine. Among Singapore’s many accolades is a Sky Award for Best Overall Wine Cellar. They have multiple wine connoisseurs on the payroll. They have reds and whites from Germany, France, Portugal, California, and Australia. Want something stronger? They’ve also got an expansive cocktail menu, including a Singapore Sling, and one made with rum and Seven-up (unusual, maybe, but hard to hate).
Due to a general aversion to hangovers and severe aversion to airplane restrooms, I’m not much of a mile-high drinker. But today? I’m on the flying version of the Titanic—may my cup runneth over.
Hour Four: The Singapore Airline flight attendants are the friendliest and most helpful I’ve ever encountered. Throughout the flight, I’m addressed as “Ms. Taylor,” rather than “miss” or “22F” or “watch your elbows.” One attendant chats with me about my plans in Singapore, and gives restaurant recommendations. Another helps me turn my recliner into a lay flat with a cheerful smile, even though 30 minutes ago he offered and I was like “no, I’ll figure it out,” and he said, “Are you sure? It’s tricky,” and I was like, “No, seriously, it’s fine.”
The female attendants wear blue sarong kebayas, which were designed by Pierre Balmain in 1968. They’re known as Singapore girls, which the airline describes as “the symbol of Asian hospitality recognized the world over.” While I hobbled off the flight with wrinkled pants and hair piled on top of my head, this group of women looked ready for an airplane magazine cover shoot.
Hour Five: They’ve turned off the lights in the cabin in an attempt to get us to fall asleep. But I’ve got a full glass of Chardonnay, and an hour of Ten Things I Hate About You to finish, so I’m up for the near future.
Hour Six: I’ve watched three movies already. Which isn’t hard to do, because Singapore Airlines offers over 1,000 on-demand options. It’s on a platform called KrisWorld, which in addition to being super high-tech, is made by someone with a sense of humor, considering I’m scrolling through a category called “Heist Heist Baby.”
But since I’m not even halfway through this flight, drastic measures must be taken. I switch to the “full TV series options” and select the entirety of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, season one.
Hour Seven: The lumpy, grey compression socks call my name like a mermaid’s taunting siren song to a weary sailor. But I won’t break. I rip open a sharing size pack of pretzel M&Ms and eat it all in under two minutes.
Hour Eight: The lights raise, and food is served again. They kick it off with a canapé trio of smoked haddock, cucumber salad with Cajun chicken, and roasted pumpkin with thyme mushroom. For my second course, I opt for the salt baked chicken with sautéed vegetables and fried rice. And why yes, I would love a second piece of garlic bread, and yes, I will eat it in my lay flat position.
Hour Nine: I’m not remotely hungry, but I keep eating because it’s there, and actually this food is really good. While my friends and family back in the States texted me during the first few hours of my journey, they’ve all gone to sleep now. I know that, but still check my screen every few minutes anyway.
Hour 10: Teetering between joy—I’m over halfway there!—and insanity—I’m just over halfway there—I get on my knees and peek over my divider, just to see what my neighbor is up to. She’s asleep. Lucky, I think. I chug the rest of my wine.
Hour 11: Don’t get back with Joel, Miriam! Do NOT let your talent go to waste! Wait, how many of these have I watched?
Hour 12: I’d been documenting my journey hour by hour on Instagram—part journalistic exercise, part time-killing activity. I scrolled to see who was watching. And there, at the very top, was a familiar face. A face that, even though I had unfollowed, Instagram still knew to put at the top of my feed. My chest tightened. He saw hour 7, where I bopped my head in huge headphones with a giant bag of pretzel M&M’s on my chest. It felt silly at the time. Now it felt stupid.
I clicked through to the next story post. His avatar disappeared. Even oceans away, I wasn’t interesting enough to keep watching.
Before getting on the longest flight in the world, I expected the restlessness; the boredom. The cramps in my knees, and the grime on my teeth. But I didn’t expect the abject isolation. Lying silently in my gray plastic pod, surrounded by strangers I can’t see or hear, I feel an intense desire to get out, to see people, to be around noise and laughter and energy. To stop wandering the chambers of my own mind. I step out to see if any KrisWorld screens are aglow. Unsurprisingly, they’re re all dark.
I put on my compression socks.
Hour 13: Well, I have watched the entirety of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel in one sitting. I can’t fathom starting something new, so the only thing left to do is try to sleep. I haven’t gotten a text for hours, but I still don’t turn off my phone.
Hours 14 and 15: The Singapore Airlines lay flats come with a comforter and two pillows, to ensure sleeping is not only possible, but comfortable. And as cozy as it was, I couldn’t sleep. I flitted in and out of hazy thoughts, as visions of Instagram stories and 1960s women danced through my head.
Hour 16: The violet lights slowly rise. The ever-merry flight attendants wish us good morning, and share the news: thanks to a strong tailwind, the flight is ahead of schedule. We will land at around 18 hours. I stand up in the aisle to stretch, seeing if anyone else is as relieved as I am.
Hour 17: The inhabitant of a neighboring pod with window access opens the shade. I smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen daylight, I believe, since hour two.
Hour 18: “Welcome,” says the pilot, “to Singapore Changi.” Changi, with its butterfly gardens and movie theaters, is the nicest airport in the world. But I have no intention to stop and smell the rose bushes (no really, there’s a horticultural unit). The seatbelt sign goes off, and I leap up to grab my bag from the overhead bin.
The flight attendants smile as I reach the exit. “Goodbye, Ms. Taylor,” they say, looking just as polished as they did 18 hours ago. A weird part of me wants to hug them, to give some acknowledgement of the crazy thing we just shared. But then I realize this is a run-of-the-mill day for them, smile back, and carry on.
I join the silent, jet-lagged horde marching to the customs line. Up ahead, I see the water-bottle guy. I see the little old lady, reunited with her little old husband. I see the two men in the navy blue t-shirts emblazoned with “Longest Flight in the World.”
“Hey,” I call out, quickening my pace. “Where’d you get those?”