Although at times the aircraft felt like a saltshaker in the hands of a chimpanzee, overall it was a great flight. The British attendants seemed genuinely happy to serve as they floated about their winged metropolis. I could have listened to them talk all day, their accents more like melodies than language.
“What would you like to drink?” Say it again, it’s mesmerizing.
The plane was barely full to capacity, allowing almost everyone on board the chance to stretch themselves out like sheets on a clothesline. Even my dad, all 6’2″ of him, managed to squeeze out of his human pretzel pose into something much more like home.
We were all given a “feel good” bag that included a futuristic toothbrush and a microscopic tube of paste. But you know what?
It was true to its name: it really did make me feel good.
So here we are, descending upon London’s Heathrow airport, ears popping, hearts beating with gratitude. The city is barely awake but the lights below glow like streaks of yellow sun.
Have we really just crossed the Atlantic Ocean?
Thank you, Lord, for getting us this far.
