Day 23: another fucking airport, and a pretty damn good sandwich...

I always find myself staring when at airports. staring at the people complaining about pointless things. staring at couples arguing. staring at businessmen - who appear to look the same across the world, by the way. staring at those who stare at me... unless I am too busy trying to find sleep amongst the boarding calls and am drooling in a corner somewhere. airports are up there with asda (at 2am) for the prize for places most like death's waiting room.

here I am in Iceland... at Keflavik airport in reykjavik. my face is numb from all the plane and airport air. this fuckin' putrid airlock of a place. gah. but the sandwiches are good here. good like the French airport sandwiches. the fact that I am talking about airport sandwiches indicates the level of delirium I am experiencing right now.

death's waiting room sandwich...

I am desperate to open my duty free sealed bag and drink my rye whisky. ain't nothin' like alcohol to quash the heartache of a sleepless night. but it remains shut, as I am carrying twice the appropriate limit and hope to sneak through by looking bedraggled and ridiculous. it is an unstoppable plan I tell ya!

my current state is buoyed markedly by the fact I have been offered a lift back home from Glasgow airport... without which I would be the mad raving lunatic girl on the 3pm train from Glasgow Queen St. thank you ten million fold, D.

I would quite like to come back to Iceland for a visit actually, i suppose that's their cunning ploy really. i kinda like the idea of holidaying on mars! but wait, there's Berlin, Istanbul and Rome first. oh yeah, and my yearly trip to Paris...

the list is never-ending!

deliriously yours, O.

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