I'm in the bowels of an Airbus headed for Bombay. We're somewhere over the Arabian Sea, south of Iran or Pakistan. My watch shows 18:06, but it's not adjusted yet. Locally, it's bound to be a few hours later. It's all dark out the window. I guess if we suffer engine failure and are forced to go down here, we'll get to use those life vests. I always used to wonder (guess I still am, whenever the plane shakes too much) why commercial flights come with life vests instead of parachutes.
Maybe, theoretically, if you manage to land stretched out with your toes or fingertips first, a life vest will do you more good than a parachute in the ocean. Well, anyway. The Arabian Sea's likely to be a whole lot warmer than the North Atlantic.

Very tired now, but excited. I think of my trip, and realize that as far as the first two weeks go, for once, I won't be a tourist. A foreigner, but not a tourist. Business, rather than pleasure.

Air France serves up a rather continental breakfast, and I eat all of it. It's weird with airline food. Seems to get put down more than even the stuff that school kitchens provide, but I can't think of a lot of things I've eaten in-flight that I didn't like. Maybe it's all in the exciting context of going away, or maybe it's just me having a weakness for manufactured, single-serving food rather than the home-cooked thing. Also, I guess I tend to load up (for being me anyway) on food right now, knowing I'm headed for a country where, perhaps more than anywhere else, you have to watch what you eat. I've been having a personal carnevale of sorts the past week: a lot of steak, hamburgers and pork chops, knowing there won't be much in the way of that for awhile. On the other hand, I'm extremely fond of Indian cuisine, so it shouldn't be too difficult an adaptation.

A problem with lack of sleep is that it distances you from what you're experiencing. A copy, of a copy, of a copy, you know. I've been looking forward to this for a long time, and now I'm here, but it's hard to really zone in on it. One thing that's tangible, though, is that once I'd changed flights in Paris, there's no longer any counting on anyone I meet speaking Swedish. It's not a useful language anymore. I'm not at home.

Still, I think, as we close in on the Indian subcontinent, tired as I may be, and profound as I may try to come off, I am, without a doubt, extremely excited. This, is going to be quite a thing. I'm headed for high country, I believe. Shining times, figurative lotus-eating, and all the paparazzi I can smile at. So I smile, tuck Noelia's letter safely in my bag, lean back, and wonder where the hell she learned to sp34k l33t.