There needs to be a word for the pathological loathing one feels when boarding a plane and having to walk through the First and/or Business class sections en route to your own pissweak Economy class seat. Nothing makes me spew more with futile rage than seeing a fully reclined someone with a pre-takeoff glass of champagne in their hand, especially at the start of your third eight-hour flight of the day.
Another delight of long haul travel is watching your reflection progress through increasing levels of shithouse. With each trip to the bathroom the hair has limpened a few more notches; the eye bags bloom; the tiny pimples peek above the surface.
We got back to Scotland today and I think it is possible (but bloody impractical) to be equally in love with two countries. For example: when I first got to Melbourne, an Aussie accent came strolling over the speakers, "Passengers arroiving from Duboi, yer bagserat carousel foive!"
Shortly afterwards at Carousel Foive, a tiny Glaswegian lady suddenly thrust her handbag at her grandson. "HOUD MAH BAG, SON! HERE IT COMES!" * she rasped, before throwing herself on top of her wheelie suitcase as it trundled by.
Both sounds were music to my ears.
* I wish I knew how to capture an extremely thick Weegie accent. but I have been awake for thirty house.
Update: That was 18 April and it's now 7 May. I dunno where I was going with this but will post anyway!