An 11 hour flight to Paris. And I only get to see the inside of the airport.
Narrow seats. And lots of 'em.
I was flanked by two very tiny women. I felt quite large.
They keep the alcohol flowing though so that you can either imagine yourself smaller than you really are, fall asleep, or find yourself so inebriated that you no longer care.
When you travel to a foreign country your brain automatically attunes to language. Your ability for discernment sharpens and you become grateful for all of those years of high school Spanish which have made your ears a bit more sensitive. You start to recognize words - word stems -roots. And then you just stop and listen to the beauty and fluidity of the language only to be disappointed by its often lackluster English translation.
And then you stop listening and simply look at the array of people. You start to make up stories for them. Maybe they are going to Paris because a loved one passed. Or maybe they are reuniting with a long, lost love. Maybe they are on holiday. Maybe they have won the lottery or their art has been commisioned. Perhaps they were called in under special orders to investigate a crime. Maybe they are birdwatchers or olfactory specialists. Maybe they even work for the CIA.
Students.
Profilers.
Pilgrams.
Maybe their final destination is somewhere else. Like me.
When people have asked me about where i am going their first question is usually " are you going on a mission?" How sad that going out of the country is almost always associated with a mission. But I gave it some thought and yes, of course it is a mission!"
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