She knows, now, absolutely, hearing the white noise that is London, that Damien’s theory of jet lag is correct: that her mortal soul is leagues behind her, being reeled in on some ghostly umbilical down the vanished wake of the plane that brought her here, hundreds of thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Souls can’t move that quickly and are left behind, and must be awaited upon arrival, like lost luggage.
Apparently, my circadian rhythms are still living their best lives in rural France or perhaps, by now, London. Could my soul be enjoying a gozleme at the market in Highgate, or perhaps a Biryani at that beautiful traditional restaurant in Bur Dubai.
Look at me dropping names. Don’t get me wrong; I am not much of a traveller. My worst days while on vacation are the days when I have to get myself to the next destination. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a tourist at heart. It’s the beauty, food, culture and history that attract me to a place.
I have an awful feeling that gravity doesn’t want us to move about so much. Trains have become my preferred means of transport, but now know to choose a single seat if travelling solo and singles facing each other across a table for travelling with someone. Last year we travelled happily from Vienna to Salzburg and then on to Venice in singles like this.
We discovered on this trip that sitting in a foursome is not for the faint of heart.
For example, window seats, facing each other in a foursome, First Class Montparnasse (Paris) to Auray (Brittany). An elderly Frenchman seated on the aisle grunted and coughed for nearly two hours, then CUT HIS FINGERNAILS. (I sent a video to my son…)
We could, in hindsight, have headed to the Bar car. Note to my future self.
Then, a week later, Premier Class Eurostar, two seats in the direction of travel. No one did any personal grooming as such, but the English father-son pair across the table had an argument because the teenager declined the meal. (Dad seethed, ‘Just bloody get the meal, I’ve already paid for it!) The son stormed off and Dad confessed to us that three days in Paris with his sixteen-year-old son had been a challenge. He couldn’t quite believe he’d raised a son who refused to ‘eat any of that foreign muck.’
Sigh… Travel isn’t easy for anyone.
I keep telling myself I’ll feel better tomorrow, and it will be right eventually (I hope!) so, my soul, if you’re still in France, wandering about the standing stones in Carnac, I wish you well, but please hurry home. You’re needed here.
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