I am back in Bayonne. Back home. Though really, so many homes have been left behind. The heart throbbed yesterday when I had a layover at Heathrow. The hum of the familiar is intoxicating.
Now, mizzle. The lavender grey stretch of the Hudson. The park with its army of trees stripped clean of leaves, but oh wait, a few golden leaves cling to one. A boy in black waits at the bus stop holding on patiently to his black umbrella, buffeted by the wind. It must be freezing outside (yes, I am guilty of putting a lead photo from a few months ago).
It is as warm inside. The lemon verbena candle burns quietly and the room smells citrus. Cosy. Behind me Adi clacks away on his computer, and then there is this, me clacking away on Bertie. Serenity. I am home.
I woke up in the middle of the early morning hours. An unsettling sense of being suspended in some other space. Where was I? It took some time for my discombobulated mind to soak in the fact that I was in our own room. Heavens, it was bliss. Then I looked at Adi’s peacefully snuggled form, cuddled up, and rejoiced. To be back where you belong. Is there any feeling as good as that?
So please, no more air travel anywhere, at least for some time. This 20-hour journey has scrambled my brains. The rigmarole of shedding clothes and shoes at security, putting them back on, repeating it all over again, endless eating on the flight, lack of enough water, snacking upon Marmite popcorn (egad), reading Jazz-age tales from Fitzgerald, then nodding vigorously at the wisdom of Mark Manson and snickering at his sense of humour, watching movies and TV shows, listening to music wondering about when it should all end, insufferably long queues at immigration at JFK Airport, the people here who insist on referring to landing cards as receipts. I am done.
So you know what to do when you want to punish someone or take wholesome revenge (you sweet human). Just put that someone on a long-haul flight.