Hours before the sun, Francis picked up Luke and me from Cumberland House and drove us to London-Gatwick. Going through customs was easy, because this time Luke didn’t have a six-pack of Cascazilla in his bag (I offered to chug them all at JFK clearance, but the TSA wasn’t having it; lucky bastards probably drank them right after we left).
Every trip transforms you in some way. You learn something about people, about the world, about yourself. By seeing what is in other lands, you discover what could be back home. Beer brewed for taste, not for transport. Three grams – not two – in a tea bag. Cities built to prioritize alternative transit. Laws that reduce crime rather than just punish it.
We travel to enjoy what other countries have to offer, and we travel to remind ourselves what we value back home: the routines, comforts, and people who are special in our lives. Looking out over the Atlantic from the window of my 747, I’m thinking about those people – friends home and abroad, old and new.
I set out to write one piece each day of the trip. A missed flight, a broken computer, and sparse web access meant I couldn’t post each day, but I did write. I don’t know precisely what I’ll use this website for, though I know it’ll relate to my writing. For now, I’m glad it serves as a travelogue, and allows me to share my adventures with you.
Swift flights and sunshine,
Z
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