Re-entry into the First World

Kady and I parted ways at our $4/night guesthouse in Kathmandu. It was brilliantly anticlimactic. I pondered wistfully over my very complicated feelings for the Asian continent as the taxi driver made his way through Kathmandu over roads that couldn't have possibly actually been roads on our way to the airport.

Qatar Airlines did not disappoint. Two words, people:

Limitless, free gin and tonics.

I couldn't help but notice that there were only about six women on the flight and I'm pretty sure I, like, accidentally married the two Indian men who sat in the middle and aisle seats of my assigned row and didn't budge one stinking inch when I seated myself before takeoff or when I stood to visit the bathroom. I moved to a row all by myself and cried a little as I watched sentimental movies and tried to rationalize how cheap my $500 flight would be if I drank enough gin and tonics. I landed in Doha, Qatar just long enough to check my email on the airport-wide free wifi (you're killing me, the Middle East) and to hear the words "last call" for my next flight.

By the time I arrived at Heathrow in London at 10 p.m., it was 4 a.m. according to my body and circadian rhythms. I over-annunciated my words at the British Immigration officer, tried to translate his English to English because I was that tired and stared at him blankly for far too long after he asked me where home was.

I guess that's when it hit me: I hadn't flown home; I was in another foreign country.

The best welcome sign I ever saw.