I was never able to fully relax back in the real world, because I knew I was really just stealing time from myself. It was obviously nice to eat large pieces of boneless meat, breathe smog-less air, drink scum-less water, and sleep on a concrete-less bed, but I knew I was going to pay for it all in the form of an absolute deluge of sub-par assignment marking upon my return - plus there was the ever-present spectre of another looming trans-pacific flight to tug at my zen state.
In a strange way, though, getting to the airport again was also a relief, because it meant my few days of shopping for exotic items my friends had ordered (E45 cream? What the hell is that?), as well as being castigated for tracking dirt into my temporary domicile, were over. I've become rather inured to flying over the Pacific Ocean since my initial hellish flight to Auckland in 2011, but it doesn't mean I don't hate almost every minute of it.
There's something about being in what amounts to a swiftly careening jerky machine for half a day that will never fail to put my teeth on edge. The necessary dehydration makes my eyes burn after an hour, which is usually about when they get around to giving you the option to watch heavily-edited movies (for content AND duration!)...which I would need a clockwork orange-like device to make watchable, because my eyes automatically close.
My thought for this trip was that if it could make me somehow teleport directly to my destination, I would have announced to all the passengers aboard that I was going to do it, and then immediately poured hot coffee all over my crotch for their amusement at my pain. Alas, that wouldn't actually work...the only uptick is that in the future I will scoff at puny flights from Canada to England/Europe. 8 hours? You can barely get uncomfortable in that time!
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