Showered, fed, walked, and endrunkened, I now feel somewhat human. Actually, more than human. I feel pretty good.
At some point, jet lag will hit. But after a margarita at the airport, a screwdriver on the plane, a cup of coffee on the plane, a Vanilla Coke on the bus from the airport (thanks be to Caz!), a glass of wine with dinner, and a half-pint at the grotto-esque pub where Rhodes scholar Bill Clinton was known to wine and dine, my body's pretty goddamn confused about when and where it's supposed to be sleeping. I may lie down with a book at some point soon.
On the flight over, at least, I actually managed to do some journaling in the Death notebook I found at Virgin on sale months ago. I now have something resembling a travel journal. And that's what I'm doing now -- travelling.
Of course, the quality of my observations leaves something to be desired:
You know what? Adventures seem a lot more fun after a marg. EVERYTHING seems a lot more fun after a marg.
I'm a very conscientious bag watcher. Even as I write this, the hot German guy's backpack and shopping bag (both blue) are locked in my vision. I do this because I take airport security seriously. I also do this because he asked me to "put an eye on his bags."
Guys ought to love girls in handknit scarfs. Especially hot German men dressed entirely in blue.
In the safety instructions video, the oxygen masks fall from above in slow-mo. Peter Jackson would be pleased.
It's time to lie down with a book and see what happens, I think. Sleep will hopefully come soon.