Thirty-six hours absolutely flies when you’re watching a friends marathon or when you’re drunk. Thirty-six hours transit time (and I haven’t entirely thought this pun through) and you’re in a plane for 28 hours of that, doesn’t fly.
I learnt a few things. I’m always learning things.
Don’t eat gluten before your flight, especially if you’re gluten intolerant. It makes for a hellish day and a half.
Don’t eat gluten on your flight. They will have a special meal prepared for you (or give you someone else’s special meal in the case of Cathay Pacific, they really don’t give a fuck).
You thought New Zealand was one degree of separation. Turns out the entire world is one degree of separation. You will end up sitting next to your ex-boyfriends new girlfriend who is flying home to Sweden. It won’t be weird though, she will just pretend to be asleep for the next eleven hours.
You thought window seats were great. They are great. Until you’ve been heartily following your mothers anti-dehydration advice and the two men next to you will not move in the slightest for the next fourteen hours.
You’ll see a cute boy and plan the wedding in your head. It’s inevitable. He won’t speak English. He also won’t move when you need to pee.
You’ll end up on a train in Frankfurt Airport. Don’t freak out, you’re meant to be on it.
You’ll spend your last flight into Heathrow absolutely monged out on 33 hours worth of No-Jet-Lag and Nuerofen. You’ll eat another non-gluten free sandwich. You’ll spend the entire time the plane takes to taxi across the tarmac absolutely fizzing and everyone will stare at you.
It’s ok. Everything’s ok. You made it to the UK and didn’t even get pulled up at the border.