Sleep is for the weak... (raaaaaachel)
(man's futile reflection of the stars above us)
Would you like the chicken or the pasta?
(not such a good idea after all...)
Tiny blankets and pillows. The seat claims to recline. It lies. Three centimeters is not reclining, it is a cruel joke.
This unfortunate incongruency in promise and function leads to Jennifer slumped against the wall (how she has slept the whole night long, I confess I have no clue.) and I sleeping at an awkward angle against her shoulder.
The turbulence wakes me and I discover that I can no longer fall asleep in the same posture as before, perhaps owing to the fact that my spinal cord is now fused together in an interesting pretzel shape. The Bucket list in half-way through on the tele and the sun is just beginning to send hesitant tendrils of silver light above the horizon.
An excessively peppy waitress offers me orange juice which I accept with relish, though I note the oddness of drinking orange juice at 2 am. (Philly time?)
I attempt to get a little more sleep, but it is impossible for me to contort my body into a shape that will fit my head on the fold out tray in front of me without causing me to stand on my head.
I am very jealous of Jennifer who has been sleeping soundly for more than 5 hours.
Very strong coffee and many pictures of the newly risen sun keep me busy until the pilot announces our descent from 21,000 feet. White clouds briefly envelop us and then I glipse it-the most green I have seen in one place all at one time.
Welcome to Ireland. :D