(September 22) Let me make a friendly suggestion. When next you contemplate a dashing, daring adventure far from home, give a thought or two to how logistically crazy it will be to get there. I say this as we board our fourth flight of the day. Count ‘em: one, two, three, four. Don’t ask me what day it is or what time zone we’re in. I haven’t a clue. I do know we’re in Turkey. At this moment, we are awaiting the departure of Flight 2560 on Turkish Airlines from Istanbul to Dalaman, on the country’s southern coast. Charleston feels very far away.
This was a trip planned long ago when we knew we’d barely close out Jesse and Laura’s wedding before having to execute a hairpin turn within 36 hours to ready ourselves for this wonderful adventure to Turkey and Greece. We knew it would be a long journey, but knowing and doing are two different things. Why is that?
Up at 7 to see Alex off for his return to San Diego, we later make it ourselves to the Charleston airport. One hour wait here. One flight of one and a half hours. Arrive in Philadelphia. A three hour wait here. One eight hour flight to Frankfort, Germany. In Frankfort for four hours. One three hour flight to Istanbul. Wait in Istanbul for two hours. Finally, a two and a half hour flight to Dalaman. Let’s run the numbers, shall we? Ten hours waiting in airports, fourteen hours in the air. That’s a day, right?
Somewhere before Frankfort, I lost my train of thought. I think somewhere between Frankfort and Istanbul I lost my ability to reason. In Istanbul, I lost the ability to speak coherently. Will I remember my name when we land in Dalaman? I am clutching our two passports with whitened knuckles lest I leave them in some godforsaken restroom.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I can’t wait to reach our destination and get the trip rolling. I’ll rally, whatever my name is.
But, right now, fatigue rules.
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