December 01, 2009

In Transit

Surreal mid-point: Hong Kong airport. Absolutely un-fresh off a twelve-hour flight from London (The Boat That Rocked, Moon, 1x 30 Rock s2, 2.5x Mad Men s3, Up, two hours' sleep), I stumble into a wifi zone, watch a strange red sun sink into a fogged-up sky, and find my way to £34-worth of hot shower and lounge-incl-massage inaction.

The shower could be the best of my life, but for the baby that must be either abandoned or mid-maul. Resultant piercing screams almost cause me to follow suit. Down to the lounge. Power-point seats are near a tv with CNN just a little too loud. I sink into the lush meadows of Balmorhea's 'All Is Wild, All Is Silent'. The masseuse tsks at my knot-ridden neck, shoulders, back, arms - you name it - and she really goes for it, digging her elbows in. It's painful, but great. I hope she can't see me with the culprit laptop on.

I am now ten hours' flight from home, and I reflect that this mid-point transit is exactly that. I am now far from London, far enough to forget all of that, and so much nearer to New Zealand, near enough for it to start feeling real.

I wonder if Etienne will pick me up at the airport.

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