December 31, 2010
I don’t recall in excessive detail what happened during the following hours, but I’m certain it didn’t involve any sleep.
After a not-very-refreshing two-hour layover in Changi Airport’s sterile madness, it was time for my epic voyage’s second leg. I mercifully managed to secure a few hours’ sleep this time, but when I awoke—to searing white light—I ordered two more large Scotches and a couple of beers to accompany my rubbery breakfast omelette.
By the time the plane had landed, I felt as rotten and twisted as I had ever felt. My head had almost doubled in size, and my calf muscles were screaming with hysteria much like you get the second day of smack withdrawal. (The long-haul experience isn’t too dissimilar from the whole process of coming off smack.) As a writer, I sought to put into words how my head felt as we taxied off the runway. How did it feel? How did it feel? I wondered. Then I got it. My head: My head felt like bad breath. Bad breath! So did my breath, mind you, but that was it, by Jupiter! My head felt like bad breath!
On my way out, I caught a glimpse of some of the suites—yes, actual self-contained double bedrooms—that take up lower deck’s front half. A-ha, I thought, so here was another problem the A380 had failed to address: the grotesque disparity between rich and poor. For the rich, air travel—like life—must be one long, luxurious flattering of the ego; for the poor, air travel—like life—is an absolute fucking NIGHTMARE.
Copyright 2013 TakiMag.com and the author. This copy is for your personal, noncommercial use only. You can order reprints for distribution by contacting us at email@example.com.