I Love Too Many Time Zones
Here I am in London on a heinous seven-hour lay-over on my way to Lisbon. I have that happy nausea feeling that comes from the sketch-sleep you get on aeroplanes, or from collegiate all-nighters. (Or maybe it is the man sitting five, six, seven, eight seats away from me with his shoes off. His feet smell like a variety of rotten cheeses.) But soon I will be back in Portugal for a week’s holiday, and all will be esta bem.
I love people in too many time zones.
I hope that one day when I get married my man will understand that our main expenditure has to be travel. Not for the sake of jet-setting, either, but for the investment of relationships across time-zones. I mean, I hope he’s saving for that now, or something.