Long haul flight from San Francisco to Madrid with a brief layover in London Heathrow, where the plane circled and circled before finally landing. I haven’t slept a wink. I don’t know why but I just cannot sleep on planes. At best I barely snooze. The only time I’ve fully succumbed to sleep was on a flight from Bangkok to South Korea 11 years ago. My bus from Chiang Mai to Bangkok got stuck in traffic I threw up no less than four times, was forced to listen to Thai music blaring through the bus speakers, and my period decided to show up to the party, unannounced.
When the bus spit me out at the dicey bus station, out of nowhere an angel cab driver stepped forward, said “Airport? 400 baht, I take tollroad”. The one-night-in-bangkok taxi driver understood the assignment, hurtling no less than 90 miles an hour across the city towards the airport. I arrived 40 minutes before takeoff. The agents took one look at my ticket and immediately hustled me towards the business class immigration line. Baggage checked, passport stamped, finally reached my gate, where I found that the ENTIRE PLANE had reclining first class seats. After take off I turned over, curled up with a blanket and fell into a deep sleep. When the flight attendant woke me for breakfast, I begrudgingly sat up and stared out the window, sipping coffee.
Back to circling planes over London.
I arrived at Heathrow wide awake, dehydrated, craving an iced tea. I tried ordering one at the subpar but expensive cafe in the terminal, and was immediately shut down. So I chirped “Great! May I have an English breakfast tea and a large cup of ice?” The young woman behind the register hesitated, squinted her eyes at me, and slowly turned towards the ice machine with a large cup. I was gracious and thanked her, paid for my “off menu” tea, found a seat and sucked down the deliciously cold tea.
Flight to Madrid is low drama. I land, find my taxi driver (who blessedly doesn’t talk during the drive) and we head towards the city center.
Next stop, Pamplona.