Coming to America

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I found this old post that I wrote as I was digging through Evernote. Since I haven’t posted since a week or two after I wrote it, I figured why not use it to try to restart the blog?

It’s 1pm. Or 2pm. Or maybe it’s 5am. It depends whether you’re counting from where the flight started, the trip started or it will end. I guess I’m somewhere in the Atlantic. Maybe over Greenland. I could start the video screen but that would be hassle.

I’ve had a lot to drink. Too much you could say, though that would be a judgemental value system over what are simple facts. Vincent had gone to sleep. My chatty seat-mate from hell turned friend, his demeanor would be soul destroying if it weren’t so charming. An elderly Swiss banker (retired) he’s going to California for love. In a way so am I. He offered to share his sleeping pills with me. I’ve seen that movie. No thanks.

But when the nice lady from KLM offered me a post dinner cognac, to wash down the multiple red wines, I didn’t bat an eye. What a strange double standard. Guardians of the Galaxy is on the entertainment system. I want to watch it but not the shitty edit they’ll have here, and not on the postage stamp sized screen I have. It won’t even tilt to an optimal viewing angle.

There’s still 8 hours left. We’ve been in the air for an eternity – technically only 3 hours. It feels like more. I barely remember a time before this existence.

There was a delay at Amsterdam. Fog. We were late leaving and delayed landing and as a result I ran (ok fuck you – I walked with purpose) across AMS like a man possessed (but relatively sure it wasn’t his fault if he missed the flight). I made it in time for a random check. Both of my last trips to America have involved random checks which… doesn’t seem so random does it. Laptops? Out. Kindles? Out. IPads? Out. Then the one that threw me: cables and everything electrical. “We’re going to be here a while.” I said to the guy.

But I cleared it. And now I’m sat with my buddy Vincent with another 8 hours to go.

The Church has this notion of purgatory. It’s not that terrible the way they describe. Maybe if they reframed it as a long haul plane ride, they might encourage more people to hedge their bets.

But soon I’ll be in San Francisco. I can almost taste it.

Addendum – there’s a woman a few rows down whose shirt proudly proclaims “Partier”. The expression on her face – constant for the last few hours – suggests otherwise. You take your humour where you can get it on these gigs.