The most painful part of my trip is tomorrow. The getting on and getting off of many airplanes, the lines, the crowds. Ah yes, the joys of travel.
I start my trip with a flight to Dallas, which isn’t too bad, except when I get there I have to sit around for four hours. That’s not really enough time to do anything productive, but just enough time to drive you crazy. Then I get on a flight to Chicago. No time to sit around here. I have just 40 minutes to go from a domestic to an international flight. That should be quite a monkey. What was I thinking, right? Not much apparently.
The fun only continues when I get to England. They don’t exactly give you a warm welcome at the airport, do they? They shuttle you through tunnels to a location where you stand in line with all your luggage piled around you, half-dazed, your feet swollen. Then they ask you questions no one should be asked when they’re recovering from the lack of sleep and the bad airplane movie. I can barely fit together a coherent sentence when I first wake up, much less tell you how long I’m going to be in the country, and whether I’m there for business or pleasure.
If a country was struggling with tourism, they should definitely start with the airport. Set up some chairs, offer water and a smile. Maybe a few cocktails. I’m convinced even downtown Baghdad would seem like a lovely, quaint town if they set you up with a margarita right off the plane.