I met Sarah down at Westlake Plaza, my bags packed and ready to fly to Europe for 19 days, part byznyz, part pleazure.
Really would have rather skipped the trip altogether, maybe trained it down to Mexico, but there are things I need to do.
It was nice of Sarah to ride the 174 to the airport with me. I wish she were coming, too, but she's got things she needs
to do in Seattle. (Humans, for some reason, like to keep themselves busy.) I'd thought I was ahead of the game, had even
printed my boarding pass at home via the Web, but I forgot my power converter and so had to buy a new one at the
airport gouge price of $26 (at least there was no tax). One thing I didn't forget was to mix some tequila in a glass peach
iced tea bottle and I sipped that empty while I waited. Once aboard, I fell asleep before takeoff. Then I woke up and
finished Orwell's Down & Out in Paris and London. It was curious to read about someone slogging away in a hotel cellar
kitchen while I dined on bland pseudofood 35,000 feet in the air. (The good thing about specifying vegetarian meals is you
get served before anybody else.) It was a tasteless herd on Flight 34, no one seemed to really want to be there. I fit right
in, drank a few beers, snoozed. Visibility was zero approaching Holland's Schipol Airport. Looking out into blank grey,
abrupt sudden flash of runway and the plane hit, no time to get nervous about it. The whole flight was but a murky dream.