Yes. That’s right. I’m attempting another holiday blog. Last time I managed a stunning 3 whole days but, in my defence, they were like bloody novels and I actually feel sorry for the poor sods who read them. If one of them was in fact you, you may sense a slight difference in my style of writing. Last time, I’d been reading The Time Travellers Wife (and I’ll be honest, it’s still in my bag, unfinished, waiting for some foreign accommodation for me to whip it out again) and I got swept away in it’s flourished narrative. I do like that though, when something inspires (Christ, did I actually just write that I’ve been inspired? Steady on Dickenson, you don’t won’t to lose them in the first paragraph) but yes, inspires you to write differently. But less about that and more about right now since I promise to make these entries a little more snappy.
I am currently on my second flight of the day from Amsterdam to Newark. I love how I had to fly somewhere an hour and a half away to fly back on myself- thanks airlines- you are just too logical. I’ve just been watching ‘Dear John’ which also airlines, is not very logical either. Sobbing into the Polish man to my lefts shoulder is not how I envisaged starting off my summer adventure. I am one of those people who hate hate hates crying in public but when it comes to films, I’m an emotional terror. I remember having to stay behind until all the credits had ran out in a film (actually, it was The Time Travellers Wife. God. I’m bloody obsessed. I blame it on Eric Bana. What. A. Man) because I looked positively atrocious. Didn’t help that my mate just sat there laughing at me either. The last time I cried at a film was, and gosh, I shouldn’t probably even admit watching this, was ‘The Last Song’. Yes, I do mean the Miley Cyrus film. Faye and I decided to stroll along to the 11:40pm showing after a few drinks and after revelling in the empty cinema by decorating the stairs with cartwheels and star jumps, we slouched in our seats, weeping as misfortune after misfortune rolled in. After it finished we promised to never speak of it again and left ravaged with shame.
The screen above me tells me I’ve got 2 hours 40 left and that I’m passing over St. John’s. I was lucky enough to have a window seat for my Amsterdam flight and as we soared over the green palette of countryside below us, I genuinely could not grasp that those laces of road held cars that held people. I felt like I was peering down at a model city in a glass cabinet, not the idyllic Dutch countryside.
When I arrive in Newark, I’ll get the Airtran to Penn Station and then onto Middletown. Udi sent me a whole list of instructions but it’s likely that I’ll get very lost, get on the wrong train and end up on the Upper East Side in Chuck Bass’s boudoir. Oh, a girl can dream, can’t she?!
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