Traveller’s Woes

I must admit that I hadn’t really begun to think about the trip I’m currently on until I had to start packing—which was two days ago, mind. I don’t think it’s really sunk in that I’m on my way to another country thousands of miles away from everything I’ve come to know. I have no expectations of Ireland, which may be for the best since I won’t be disappointed.

The thing that must be understood about me as a traveller though—and I cannot really use the word to describe myself as often as I’d like—is that despite my vocalised dislike of people, I have an inexplicable love of airports. Maybe it’s the sense of change and progress; people are always moving forwards, even if they’re going backwards. Sure, the food is generally awful, but you can bring your own iffin you like. I don’t even mind all the security and precautions and warnings of “threat-level, orange”. Except for feeling like a spy having gotten caught by the enemy, having to take off my leather jacket, my belt, my shoes, remove all my jewellery and everything from my pockets, show that my laptop is, in fact, a laptop and is not, in fact, a bomb.

Oh shite, I said bomb. I’m probably about to be tackled by flight attendant and passenger alike for being a terrorist.

What I do not like about travelling is what I’m currently doing: being cramped into an airplane seat for ten hours and having my legs cramp and fall asleep. True, I’ve slept through almost a civil majority of the trip—three-fifths—but the time I have been awake has been nothing but dull and achy. And the only way to remedy the latter is taking a walk to the toilet—which is just as cramped, if not moreso, than this seat. At least I’ve got the window.

The strangest thing so far has been the fact that it hasn’t gotten dark. According to the clock on the screen, it is 11:32, but that’s in California, and I am currently flying over the Atlantic. I’m not exactly sure where over the Atlantic, since there’s nothing but clouds and water below us, but I was delighted to wake up in time to watch us fly over the Arctic.

The voice over the speaker system—the first one I’ve been able to understand—just announced that we’re descending (as if we couldn’t tell) and will be landing in Dublin in about a half-hour, just after 8 a.m. local time. Mind-blowing, really. I’ve completely missed Monday.

And that stewardess who told me she liked my art did not have that accent when we took off. Oh well, chances are I’ll have slipped into it by the end of the day.