Sometimes I can forgive myself for thinking some things strange.
I sit here in relative comfort, reading Conrad and drinking tea inside a giant steel cocoon forty thousand feet in the air, moving at nine miles at a minute. Halfway between departure and destination, there is nothing but cloud and ocean for five hundred miles in any direction. I can still make out the wing, but light is fading on the other side of my window, where the air is fifty-eight below.
It's been ten years, just a few weeks shy, since I last traveled out of the country and probably three or so since I last flew. The amount of time between stepping out of the car and onto the plane has grown at least two-fold and is certainly no more enjoyable for it. I have discovered a couple of new things however, primarily about how neanderthal domestic carriers in Australia are compared to their international counterparts. Flying coach, I have enough legroom to extend myself fully, I have films, tv and music on-demand, the stewards are most helpful and the lavatories are fit for Kings. Big Kings, with an entourage. I used to bemuse myself wondering how an Earth people could copulate on an in-flight vessel considering that I found merely turning around in the bathrooms to be a task for a contortionist. But now I know. These bathrooms are immense; I have seen smaller in houses. Verily there is not only room for intimacy, but (dare I suggest it) foreplay as well. And if the mile high club does not tickle your fancy, you could probably practice your golf swing instead.
The plane will not touch down on Malaysian soil for just over two hours from now which if I'm not mistaken, will allow me the luxury of viewing All The President's Men.
Viva le travel.