I firmly believe that there’s always time for a quick lunch and a quick hug.
As I fly from London to Mexico City, through the window I can only see bright puffy clouds covering Greenland’s coast (or so my monitor says) still 6:53 hours left of this 11 hour journey. I’m literally travelling back in time.
MrD. And I myself crossed Londinium from East to West, all the way to Heathrow’s brand new terminal 5.
He treated me with a quick brunch at Carluccio’s. Eggs Florentine arrive served on a long slice of crusty bread. On top there’s a creamy portion of blanched spinach and two poached eggs covered with a light and velvety hollandaise.
He is scandalised by the distinctive lack of “proper strawberry jam” and since the options are marmalade or figs, marmalade wins.
Next: Security screening, frisking, galloping, panting, boarding.
I’m sitting by the window.
I mop off the salty tracks of the farewell tears. I left my heart in London.
Lunch was served an eaten. Having requested a special menu in advance was a smart move. One has to acknowledge British Airways’ effort to meet its costumer’s dietary needs.
I confess I was quite resigned to endure yet another tasteless, boring air plane meal, but to my surprise, it was actually good, at least most of it.
The menu as it occurred:
1 glass of reconstituted orange juice. Not too sweet. Acceptable.
1 small bottle of Chilean Cabernet. Quite sweet for a Cabernet, fruity and round. Young but not sharp.
Lunch consists of a sweet potato and white bean cassoulet curry with spinach, mustard and cumin rice.
A small bun with oregano an thyme. A good bake.
Coleslaw with red cabbage. Too much sour cream, or is it salad cream? I don’t like it but I eat it for the sake of research.
For dessert a small sticky toffee pudding covered with a thick dollop of caramel. It is nice and just in the right size, too sweet for a larger portion.
More orange juice.
A kid is howling.
A flight attendant saves the day by baby whispering the kid, saving the rest of the passengers from an ordeal.
All lights are out.
It’s really bright outside.
We’re approaching the Canadian coast.
I take a nap.
Flying over Chicago.
I’m watching Turner. It’s decisively yellow.
I can only think of him (not Turner)
2 glasses of water, 1 of orange juice.
1 glass of water.
Hummous sandwich. Absolutely tasteless and damp.
Ginger stem cookies. Spiced cardboard.
1 cup of tea.
19:30 Local time (2:30 in London)
Landed in Mexico City.
It is a scientific fact that the cabin pressure combined with dry air inhibits the olfactory sense and consequently our taste perception is diminished. So it might be the case that the food we are served might actually be well seasoned but we are physically incapable of tasting it.
Be as it may, we have no chance to actually know if that is true unless we eat the same food on the ground to compare it.
In the end, one is always happy to just have survived the trip and that is good enough.