Tel Aviv by way of Rome aboard an Alitalia aircraft; it was
an interesting route. At least we would
appear friendly to Hamas with all the southern Italians on board; they tend to
look Palestinian at first glance.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a nervous flyer. I’ve gotten better in recent years, but
somehow that feeling that the pilot is an alcoholic who only manages to fly
because he’s a cokehead never seems to abate.
I’ve come to accept that the best remedy for me is to sleep through the
flight and to do that I hit the airport bar and to get prepped/drunk.
I must have spent too much time at the magazine rack reading
car and motorcycle magazines because by the time I hit the bar I only had time
for one gin and tonic. I made it a
double, but only after the bartender made a very convincing value proposition:
singles were $7 and doubles were $12. It
wasn’t an entirely new concept but it was true… the more you drink, the more
you save.
Which leads me to this sentence, composed over the middle of
the Atlantic Ocean after a meal of reheated agnolotti in cream sauce and 3
glasses of “vino rosso”. Dad is getting
some sleep after having watched a movie.
I’m listening to Claude Debussy’s La
Mer while the guy in the guy in the seat behind me furiously taps on the
touchscreen that happens to be connected to my headrest. Time to rest.
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