“The Longest Day in Existence. Ever.” Or, “No Really, It Was FREAKING LONG”

As I sit on this flight from L.A. to London writing this out because I’ve little else to do (only nine hours and fourteen minutes remaining!), it seems as though waking up at five in the morning in my own bed was forever and day ago.

I’ll be honest--right now I feel more like I’m indulging in a week-long excursion to a quaint summer camp than embarking on a life-changing journey to a foreign country in which I will immerse myself in a different culture, rewire my brain to process a different language, and become so fantastically tan that the people of Arizona will no longer blink in confusion to hear Spanish come out of my so-pale-it’s-almost-endearing mouth. It really is quite hard to believe I’ll undergo such a transformation, especially with the SPF 50 I’m planning to bathe in, but I have every confidence I’ll make that transformation.

        Eventually.

Perhaps.

In any case, I thought I would share with you some of the more delightful aspects of international travel. For starters,  I have single-handedly shot down not one, but two perfectly wonderful opportunities to practice my Spanish in little under twelve hours. On my flight from Phoenix to L.A., I hurriedly waved away the encouragement of the sympathetic Colombian pilot I had the pleasure of sitting next to with, “My Spanish is okay...sort of...Lovely magazine, Sky Mall! Isn’t taxiing great?” Any attempts at Spanish conversation were shot down again when checking my bag at the international terminal in L.A. after the elderly-Argentinian-who-had-lived-for-many-impressive-years-in-Madrid-and-led-an-otherwise-fantastic-life asked me, “Pues, ¿quieres probar?...” he was answered promptly with, “Siperomiespañolnoesmuybuenolosientopero¿como--(sharp inhalation)--está?” With a look of either pity or amusement, he told me that I would get better and all but patted my head. My Spanish is actually not that bad, so I have no explanation for these events save that I am a feckless moron easily intimidated by friendly old geezers in checked shirts. 

Other than that, my airplane travel has been quite the ordinary affair--the usual hour-long security line saturated with bovine-like sports fans, creaky baggage claim belts, and the half-Chinese/half-English conversation I inevitably grow frustrated at not being able to overhear (I have long been under the impression that conversations taking place in languages other than English are begging for eavesdroppers, but alas, Mandarin is beyond me). 

I must admit, my experience thus-far on the British Airways flight is a skosh above the typical aerial excursion. I have already--I type this with barely-contained glee--encountered real live British people! Being a ten-hour international flight, the accommodations compared to Southwest are much more...well, accommodating. The seat actually reclines more than .0765 degrees and there’s a mini-television embedded in the seat in front of me boasting movies with such enchanting plot devices as “magical voodoo, man-eating crocodiles and turbo-charged speedboats.” The stewardess, bless her, offered me “wine, beer, and spirrrits” without even batting a lash. Unenlightened of the international flight drinking age, however, I politely declined and instead accepted a “fizzy drink” (squeal!). They even gave us a complimentary pair of socks.

The rest of the London flight went as follows:

 5:09 remaining on LA-London Flight: Significantly less amused by the phrase “fizzy drink.” Brain slowly degenerating from overuse of more than one person saying the same line at the same time in Mama Mia (i.e., friendship chants). Also the sight of Meryl Streep in overalls being chased by James Bond. Hallucination?

2:16 remaining: I’ve fallen asleep (at last) only to be rudely awakened by “Me Myself & My (dot dot dot!) Breakfast Box,” which consists of a cheese-egg-bacon-some-unidentifiable-green-thing biscuit and four and half raisins. Sign from universe.

London Arrival: Faith in humanity is restored--steward bidding me farewell says, “Cheerio!” ( To which I blinked stupidly and not unethnocentrically asked, “Did you really just say Cheerio?” To which he smiled and said, “You’ll get used to it.” I doubt it, Mr. British Airways. I seriously doubt it.)

The London-Madrid flight was fantastic because I slept the whole way, but we got a nasty shock when we got to Madrid and they lost all of our luggage. Literally forgot to put it on the plane or something...at this point I’m so tired that I feel like I’m out to sea even when I’m sitting down, so a small thing like clean clothes is not really an issue.

 The important thing is that I'm finally here!! In Spain! And this is what I have to look forward to! You can't really see it, but the cluster of buildings under the wing has a CASTLE in it.

On that note, I think it’s time for sleeeeeeep.