iconocaust (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} iconocaust) wrote,@ 2007-12-19 12:46:00 |
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Allez-Magne
As the seasoned international traveler knows, after more than 24 hours on the wing, any sense of time tends to go right out the window -- what's left is the feeling of being adrift in some chronological limbo where hours and days have no meaning and day and night become arbitrary things at best.
Of course, flying back to Germany on the cheap seats was never going to be a day spa, but despite packing light, it was still grinding stuff; a step up from wrestling multiple suitcases through the Tube, but having to deal with surly NWA stewards sure has a way of putting a sting in travel. After a quick layover in Detroit, I barely slept en route to Europe, passing the time by browsing Skymall for the most ridiculous pieces of money-spinning -- this year's clear-cut winner being the animatronic Elvis bust with iPod compatibility -- and finally getting around to finishing Saving the Sun (a fantastic treatment of Japan's mind-boggling banking problems) some eight months after having first bought it.
Having spent almost twenty-five years flying affords the luxury of being able to follow the evolution of in-flight entertainment on a year-by-year basis, and the latest round of innovations -- fast-forward options for movies, the ability to build your own playlists -- also helped pass the time. Listening to music on a crowded commercial flight is kind of a non-starter, but at least I managed to get through The Darjeeling Limited (and half of Fantastic Four before realising that even playing it in German wasn't assuaging the movie's aggressive dumbness) before hitting the ground.
By the time I got off the plane in Amsterdam, I was sufficiently strung out on sleep deprivation and general travel-weariness that the five-hour layover was practically welcome respite. A good four hours were spent in more or less fitful sleep in one of the departure lounges, and good thing too -- Schiphol is one of those nasty, new-fangled megamall airports, all chain stores and glossy signage without the faintest sense of verve or architectural elan (let alone the bilingual weirdness of Detroit). Admittedly, it's a step up from Changi, Charles de Gaulle, or old-school Heathrow, but that's not really saying much.
So here we are. The drive home was faster than expected, but I was out for the count just an hour after arriving. Still feeling somewhat put through the wringer, but I figure the small-town idyll will salve that before long. We'll see, I guess.
As the seasoned international traveler knows, after more than 24 hours on the wing, any sense of time tends to go right out the window -- what's left is the feeling of being adrift in some chronological limbo where hours and days have no meaning and day and night become arbitrary things at best.
Of course, flying back to Germany on the cheap seats was never going to be a day spa, but despite packing light, it was still grinding stuff; a step up from wrestling multiple suitcases through the Tube, but having to deal with surly NWA stewards sure has a way of putting a sting in travel. After a quick layover in Detroit, I barely slept en route to Europe, passing the time by browsing Skymall for the most ridiculous pieces of money-spinning -- this year's clear-cut winner being the animatronic Elvis bust with iPod compatibility -- and finally getting around to finishing Saving the Sun (a fantastic treatment of Japan's mind-boggling banking problems) some eight months after having first bought it.
Having spent almost twenty-five years flying affords the luxury of being able to follow the evolution of in-flight entertainment on a year-by-year basis, and the latest round of innovations -- fast-forward options for movies, the ability to build your own playlists -- also helped pass the time. Listening to music on a crowded commercial flight is kind of a non-starter, but at least I managed to get through The Darjeeling Limited (and half of Fantastic Four before realising that even playing it in German wasn't assuaging the movie's aggressive dumbness) before hitting the ground.
By the time I got off the plane in Amsterdam, I was sufficiently strung out on sleep deprivation and general travel-weariness that the five-hour layover was practically welcome respite. A good four hours were spent in more or less fitful sleep in one of the departure lounges, and good thing too -- Schiphol is one of those nasty, new-fangled megamall airports, all chain stores and glossy signage without the faintest sense of verve or architectural elan (let alone the bilingual weirdness of Detroit). Admittedly, it's a step up from Changi, Charles de Gaulle, or old-school Heathrow, but that's not really saying much.
So here we are. The drive home was faster than expected, but I was out for the count just an hour after arriving. Still feeling somewhat put through the wringer, but I figure the small-town idyll will salve that before long. We'll see, I guess.
