Finally Sleeping on a Plane: A napfun Neck Pillow Story

For twenty-six years I have booked other people's seats. Window for the ones who sleep, aisle for the ones who get up, bulkhead for anyone traveling with a baby. I know which rows have the most legroom without looking it up. What I could not do, not once in all those years, was sleep on a plane myself.

I tried what everybody tries. I rolled my cardigan into a tube and wedged it between my ear and the window, which works until the person in front of you reclines and your head goes with it. I tried the little pillow the airline hands out in a plastic wrapper, roughly the thickness of a folded napkin and holding its shape about as well. I would land in Dublin or Chicago with a stiff neck and spend the first day of the trip recovering from getting there.

Eighteen months ago, before a long flight to Ireland, I bought the napfun neck pillow. Memory foam, ordered on Amazon, delivered in three days, which was just about how long I had before we left. I opened the box on the dining room table and was surprised at how light it was. Not quite eleven ounces. Walt picked it up, turned it over, and said it felt like nothing at all.

Here is what memory foam does that a cardigan cannot. It warms against your neck and then holds the shape it found, so you are not readjusting it every twenty minutes. The napfun pillow is semicircular and soft, and I tuck it to the side of my neck, and then I am not aware of it again until the flight attendant comes through with the second round of drinks. That is the whole review, really. It is the only piece of travel gear I own that I have stopped thinking about.

I want to be honest about that first flight, because I do not think a pillow cures anything and I do not trust anyone who says one does. The first two hours I was still awake and fiddling with it, getting the placement wrong, taking it out and putting it back. By the return flight out of Shannon I had it down. It took one trip to learn and now it takes about a minute to settle in.

Not quite eleven ounces, and I pack it before I pack my shoes. It is the only piece of travel gear I have stopped thinking about.

The travel bag matters more than I expected. The pillow compresses down into it, so it takes less room in the Samsonite than a pair of walking shoes. Mine lives in the top compartment of my carry-on where I can reach it without unpacking half the bag at security. The listing says machine wash, and I have washed it and let it dry flat, and it has come back the same shape every time.

Walt does not use one. He is 65 and has decided he does not need it, which is a thing men his age decide. He watched me settle in on the flight to Ireland and said nothing at all. On the flight home he asked to borrow it for twenty minutes. He has not asked for his own yet, but I notice he has stopped making fun of it.

One more thing, and it matters to me more than the sleep does. I travel with two passports in a neck wallet and a door lock in my suitcase, and I plan for the parts of a trip that could go wrong. A stiff neck on day one of a two-week trip is a small thing that ruins a large thing. When I land rested, I am steady on my feet at baggage claim, I am alert in the taxi line, and I do not look like someone who is too tired to notice what is going on around her. Getting off a plane in good shape is not a luxury at our age.

I have never owned an inflatable neck pillow, so I will not pretend to compare from experience. What I can tell you is that I watched a woman across the aisle on the Ireland flight reinflate hers twice and lose the little cap under the seat, and I was glad I had bought the foam one.

What I'd Tell You If We Were Sitting at My Kitchen Table

I would tell you to buy it before the long flight, not after. I waited years, and every one of those flights cost me a day on the other end. I would tell you to give it one trip to learn your own placement, because the first hour is fiddling and then it clicks. I would tell you to keep the travel bag in the top of your carry-on so you are not digging for it while the row behind you waits. I would tell you not to buy three things hoping one works. Buy the napfun, put it in the bag, and forget about it. And I would tell you that the small things you pack are the ones that decide what kind of trip you have, which is a lesson I have learned slowly and at some cost. Walt and I say a quiet prayer before every long flight, and I have found that the praying goes better when the body is not already worn out. Sit down, put your head back, and arrive somewhere as yourself.