He sighed, defeated. But the woman next to him, a chatty grandmother named Pearl, noticed his wince. “First time flying?” she asked.
The plane was 500 feet from the runway. The left ear was clear, but the right was still a stubborn, pressurized vault. “Final move,” Pearl whispered. She tore a napkin, soaked it with the last of her hot coffee, and pressed the warm, damp cloth over Leo’s right ear. “Heat relaxes the tube. Steam loosens the mucus.”
Pearl patted his arm. “Rule 8: If all else fails, chew the gummiest gum you can find for ten minutes straight. But you didn’t need it today.”
Leo sat back, stunned. The wheels hit the tarmac with a thud he felt but no longer feared.
As the seatbelt sign flickered on for landing, Pearl walked him through it.
“Now for the stubborn one,” Pearl instructed. “Pinch your nostrils shut. Keep your mouth closed. Then, gently— gently —try to blow out through your nose. Not hard. You’re not trying to launch a rocket. Just a soft, steady push.”
Leo held the warm napkin against his ear, pinched his nose for the tenth time, and gave one last, gentle puff.