I imagine the heavy thrum I hear when inside an airplane being similar to that of what a baby experiences in the womb.
Here I am again, eyes parallel with the clouds. It’s familiar, this situation. The seats feel the same: ever so slightly sticky against the back of my legs, right arm a bit warmer than the left from the sun streaming in from my window seat, tears behind my eyes waiting to meet my collarbone, and head foggier than usual from the air pressure. The hazy blue veiled with a fleet of cirrus that meet the mountain range just beyond the wing of the plane. This time I’m leaning into the wall to avoid contact with the man who has decided that the entire arm rest belongs to him; spacial awareness obviously not a strong suit.
I’ve mentioned before that I am generally not very good with vacations.
I am, however, excellent at shopping. This most recent holiday to Bangkok met somewhere in the middle.