untitled.2

So, this is it. I’m supposed to know what to do now. This is ridiculous; she must be joking. I hate girls like her...people like her, actually. Always making everything sound so fucking easy, anticipating things. How did she know I wasn’t going to wake up by myself? And how the hell did she remember about the notebook? Stupid airplanes, if this was a bus I could just chuck it out the window. I shouldn’t be here anyway. Holiday...yeah, right. People shouldn’t be allowed to start holidays travelling by plane, it ruins the entire thing. ‘Put your seat on the upright position, Sir’; ‘Turn off your electronic devices for takeoff, Sir’; ‘Fish or pasta?’. Do I look like a give a damn? It will all taste like nothing anyway. And no music during takeoff? But that’s when you’re supposed to be overwhelmed with excitement, with a great summer tune playing loud on your iPod and the picture of a chick like Angelina freaking Jolie sunbathing by your side on a white-sanded beach.

You mentioned you wanted to write down some plans. Never a better time than on the road.
Stay on the sunny side and send a postcard,
Love.

Not children screaming around, not granny sleeping and snoring on the seat next to me and all this darkness outside. This is wrong. We need light – and lightness. And I say we because I need you to come with me. Not on this bulky, claustrophobic jet-jail, but on a bike. Arms wrapped tight around my waist, chin resting on my left shoulder and the engine singing through silence. The landscape passing by is absolutely essential for travelling. Things gone and things new; cities dying and cities reborn. Most importantly, things changing. This is why we travel, right: to change. Change scenery, change routine, opinions.
Change your heart.
Anyway, I’ll hope for a cloudless sunrise. The notebook is safe for the time being, Alice, but it might not survive all the boat trips.
As for me, since I am not piloting this shit, I might as well enjoy the free wine. If I crash our bike in my sleep, I’m blaming it on you.