A departure, late on Christmas Night, followed by a sleepless flight of eleven hours (and a neverending bus ride from the plane to the building) has led me here. I’m completely overdressed for the temperature in the airport, an arrival into a windy two degrees beckons, and while comfortable, the tiredness and overheating pushes me ever closer to the kind of delirium from a past life of all-nighters and corporate trainings in other cities. Three and half hours is the changeover. It’s too long to be quick but too short to be useful. All the seats are taken. If I was functioning better I might marvel at the diversity of people milling around. Instead all I can think about is the extremely public domain Christmas music playing from the duty free shop.
Food. Bathroom. Gate. Those are the priorities, in order. Food will have to be simple. Fuck it, time to lookup well-known fast food franchise. There’s one, easy. My brain is lagging enough that I handle the whole thing on autopilot and only catch up when I slide my tray on top of the bin. One down, two to go.
Bathroom should be easy. The signs are clear. Nonetheless the walk is harrowing. The Christmas music gets louder. Some anthropomorphised trees jump and dance past me, plastered in advertising. I’m not actually able to perceive what in fact they are marketing. I’m lucid enough to wonder if they really are as weird as they seem. Two down, one to go.
The gate flashes on the board. The airline is budget, so the gate is in a far flung corner of the sprawling airport. I trudge there. I made it. It feels like an achievement. Five hours of flying to go. Passport control. Transfer to the hotel. It feels monumental.