Half the fun

They say half the fun is getting there. THEY ARE WRONG.

Firstly, there is nothing fun about an 11 hour flight across the pond, especially when the person in front of you reclines the seat the whole time and the German guy next to you has no concept of personal space. Not to be overly picky here but he was totally in my leg-room. The only redeeming aspect of the seating arraignments was that he also had a super fuzzy sweater so whenever he’d lop his elbow onto my armrest it felt like I was sitting next to a bunny.

(Also, it’s great to hear a real German say, “Gesundheit” when someone sneezes).

Generally I don’t fly well. Consistently the only five minutes of sleep I ever get are when the stewardesses are passing around drinks and snacks.

I forgot to where socks this morning (who does this?) and didn’t notice until I was barefoot in front of a TSA agent whose facial expression I read to mean, “have fun with the Athlete’s Foot you’re undoubtedly getting right now.”

I would come to appreciate not having socks when I wandered about lost in Berlin looking for my bus in the pouring rain. More on that later.

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