Just back from Malta.
I really didn't want to go. Malta is impossible to reach from LA. It's a small island off the southern coast of Sicily. I met up for business with a few friends from New York. Malta is a wonderful destination, almost unknown to Americans. European tourists were everywhere. The ground is hilly like San Francisco and my runs were slow enough that I didn't want to post them on Strava. But in deviating from the main streets and into the alleys I found character and history I will long remember. Later at night, I trekked back in to enjoy the small restaurants and bars with my friends. There's something about walking up a long steep road after a good meal that quiets the soul.
Having said all that, what I want to talk about is the unexpected of travel. Flying, in particular.
I was exhausted when I got on the plane at LAX to start the trip, sleeping only five hours since the end of the Springsteen show the night before. When I landed in London I had slept only two hours more on the plane. Called an audible and pushed back my flight to Malta for a day. The Connaught found a little nook known as Room 219 for me and I spent the time in London gathering my wits with hard sleep, a shave and haircut at Jack the Clipper's, and immersing myself in Amor Towles' new book at the Audley. Dinner at Delfino's, a couple hours writing, etc. Game changer.
The Air Malta flight on Sunday was not horrible. My middle seat was between two thin young women, affording me the arm rests. I slept in relative comfort, waking up to shift in my seat every once in a while to escape the booty lock that comes with being a grown man in a barely padded seat. I reminded myself to request an aisle seat on the return.
Malta, Malta, Malta.
The flight back to London on Thursday was more interesting. I got my aisle seat, 29C in the back of the plane. Everyone waiting in the long bathroom line graciously gave me a hip check as I slept. Children scampered. Grown men held long conversations in Italian and Farsi standing next to me. The mood was busy, let's say. At least the crowd kept me from leaning too far back in my head rest and snoring. That would have been a scene.
Another day in London on the way back, this one planned. Four mile walk. Lunch at Byron's. Morning run in Hyde Park. Long pre-flight sauna. Heathrow Express from Paddington to the airport. When Calene is with me, I take a cab. But that felt indulgent traveling alone. Hempy's going to read this and tell me to take an Uber. Comme ci, comme ca.
Terminal 2. The Queen's Terminal. Noon on Friday. I stood in line to board.
An airline representative studied my passport and guided me to a back lane. Normally, this is the sign of being chosen for a security check. I wondered whether it was random or whether I somehow looked hostile. The second flattered me more. I was greeted by her boss, who handed me a box of chocolates and a certificate for flying one million lifetime miles on United, which would occur during the upcoming flight. I had no idea.
He let me board first. Other passengers offered congratulations. The crew signed a card. "Pilot Dan" came back from the cockpit when I took my seat, shook my hand, and offered me a "Million Miler" challenge coin — which I shall treasure. It was all very surreal.
So that was my Malta adventure. This is the way of travel: conflict, exhaustion, adjustment, and an occasional celebration.
There's lots I haven't told you, though that will all come out. I'm glad I went.