The airline industry is flawed in many ways
If you are not a nervous flier, or a frequent one, the trip to the airport can still elicit a little thrill.
For the longest time, airports were, for me, sites of stress and worry, thanks in large part to my mother and her generally chill attitude towards both time and luggage weight. I was on my first plane at the age of five, which means nothing to most young people now, but in the '80s, that meant I was in a somewhat exclusive club. I can still remember the rock-like texture of the British Airways bread roll we were served by the flight attendant on that trip to Lagos. Relatedly: that job seemed almost terrifyingly cool and glamorous at the time, and 20 years later, I toyed with the idea of applying for a job in the skies. But I can't swim. Also, I am no fan of even a mild heel; and some airlines are still weird about heels. The industry is flawed in many ways but this is truly its most egregious sin.
An earlier draft of this letter stated that I was currently at JFK and writing (I was, but decided no one needed to read my airport thoughts). I have not been on holiday since Christmas/New Year, and my brain felt like it was going to stage industrial action if I did not take a break. So I packed a small case and went west. I booked my plane tickets and joined air miles schemes, and then I booked a train too. I went to Santa Barbara with a friend, and we had a lovely time (may I recommend the Kimpton Canary hotel?). Every so often, I would find myself humming the theme tune from the 80s soap opera, along with lyrics co-written by me and my siblings (San-ta Bra-bra! San-ta Bra-bra! we would sing. Yes, we misspelled it on purpose because we thought it was amusing. We still do). Oh, you never watched it? Your life is poorer for that, believe me.
In this Santa Barbara I put on a bikini for the first time in literally years, and lounged by the pool (remember: I can't swim) before going for a dip in the hot tub. Everyone becomes a douchebag the moment they sit in a hot tub; that's the law. I had on my douchebag grin, and flung my arms wide in a douchebag manner and loved every minute of it. I ate so well, from menus that were truly decadent and yet so simple! I hiked, and I shopped (shoutout to the Saks sale, and these crisp white Superga trainers!), and I bought the local newspaper, and I got a pedicure, and I read some of my current book—Fran Ross's Oreo—and I petted dogs I'd never met before and will never see again, and I went to a couple of vintage shops and bought needless things, like a pair of very cute sunglasses, and a vintage Archie comic that I am going to frame and hang up in my apartment very soon, and I talked a lot with my friend, who is very smart and also British and living abroad. In the gaps between all the stuff I was doing, I thought a lot about what I want from my life.
We are now in the month of July, the start of Q3. I'm back home in New York.
I feel fine.
*Two letters in one week! Sorry, I shan't soon do it again. Probably.