So this morning is finally here. Even though I can sleep in, I am up at the crack of dawn. With any luck this will translate into being able to sleep on the plane. The morning is soft and quiet (for the most part). The surf has come up and I can hear the waves crashing on shore, even from my house 2 miles away. We have packed and re-packed our packs a half a dozen times. I have removed 4 things, and added 3 more. WTF? Crocs are coming. iPad is not, neither is my swimsuit (I was thinking of being “civilized” and having it in lieu of colorful underwear attire) as there don’t seem to be many places to take a dip and the temperatures will be dropping as we go along. Our journey will take us from LAX through Heathrow and then onto Toulouse. In the wee hours last night, I attempted to download Rosetta Stone to my Android phone and it has failed miserably to the tune of $200. I can’t get it fixed or a refund till monday, which does me NO good on this upcoming 20 hour travel day. Thank you Mr. Murphy, ya bastard. Looks like my pack will weigh about 15lbs, of which is doable. For some reason, Paul’s is lighter. He says it’s because I brought a change of underwear and a brush. Not sure how that translates to 2lbs.
We arrive at LAX Bradley International via my good friend Jody. It’s like we have arrived just outside a giant ant colony. Everyone is moving at a frenetic pace, dragging; hoisting; carrying every kind of bag imaginable, in all different directions, dodging and winding their way into and through the “colony”… It’s mesmerising. Although we are early, I feel like we are late, and should be scurrying. I will check my pack as I have the liquids, the knives and all 4 pair of feeling poles. British Airways kindly ” bags” my pack and poles in one clear plastic bag…no charge. We make our way through security. I distracted by footwear.
For me, footwear tells a story, and there are stories a plenty. One’s shoes, the color, the style, their care/maintenance, and how they are paired with one’s attire peak my interest and stories of where they’re going, where they’ve been, who or what (profession) they might be churn in my head. Soft hushed whispers of commentary, which strangely resemble that of the commentary for a televised golf tournament keep me occupied till we board our double decker Airbus.