I am in the States. I arrived after a sleepless night spend on a crappy bench at Heathrow airport. I took one of those awful flights that leave at 6:00 a.m.. The ones that you see on a travel website and think, “no way, I’d rather pay an extra NN.NN”. I found out that there is an entire sub-culture of people who take these flights. They showed up at the airport the night before with sleeping bags and ground pads and set-up what appeared to be an LL Bean refugee camp in the departure area.
There was a bit of a scene to it as well, as young hipsters moseyed around talking about the different places in You-Rope where they had gotten drunk. I might take these flights more often. It was like going to the zoo.
Air France was uneventful. Good food, actually. They did manage to lose my bag. Again. They always seem to do this.
Finally, going through Passport Control, the rocket scientist at the counter asked how long I had been out of the States.
“I don’t know, three or four months,” I mean I hadn’t slept in 48 hours and he wants me to splice hairs about how long it had been since I darkened the doors of America. It’s on the frickin’ computer dude. I didn’t say that, I’m not stoopid. These guys wait for someone to say something rude for years.
“Well, sir, do you know what day it is?”
“My birthday.”
“The day of the week.”
“Sunday.”
I”m not sure what profile I fit that I had to know what day it was. Or perhaps, the fine folks at US Customs simply aren’t sure about it themselves.
It begs the question, what if I hadn’t known what day it is. Would I have been shipped off to Guantanamo Bay?
I need sleep.
is pretty expensive.