With Age Comes Wisdom, Sort Of

Oct. 7, almost certainly

Here--a photo of a pretty waiting area in Dubai so the first image of the post isn't of that flavorless dinner. First photo gets thrown automatically wherever I post the link, and this one is at least not ugly!

At the tender and vulnerable age of 64 (a mere spring chicken—an innocent little darling who should be covered with leaves by helpful birds in the forest like a fairy tale), I have come to a profound understanding:

Airports—all of them—really want me to eat some sugar. And some salt. The effort to eat healthfully is apparently left at the door. Abandon All Health Hopes All Ye Who Enter Here. Emirates very carefully provided me with low-sodium meals, and I’m grateful to them. They were good in the first class cabin, but the business class couldn’t take the time. They dutifully served me pablum. Flavorless pap, pre-digested and bland.

Guh. Hate having that be the first photo of the post; that's the one that's going to show up when I promote the post. It's so unappetizing! Gonna find anything instead!

During a span of time when many people were pretending to sleep (was it nighttime? Daytime? Who can say? I checked my phone for the time; it told me that it was 6:34. Was that AM or PM? No fucking clue), I arose from my birthing pod in search of a cup of tea “and maybe a cracker or something?”

The darling flight attendant—not Meriam, but still just as nice as he could be—pulled out his two choices—would I like biscotti? Or shortbread?

Neither of those is high on the nutritionist’s list of exciting alternatives for good health, but biscotti has a bad rep with me. Some find it sweet; I find it deeply disappointing. Now, shortbread? Yes. I love shortbread.

This lovely man, who has tried for eight hours to ensure my happiness with bottles of wine (no thank you), fresh juices (no, really—just water), cinnamon rolls (at least I think that’s what they were; no really, I couldn’t), and other possible treats…. He found his purpose in life. I wanted a packet of shortbread cookies? He would give me three. And when he brought my mint tea, he added two more. Five packets of sugary deliciousness. And me at a low ebb, hungry, trapped in the twilight hell of the long flight.

I ate them. All five.

And god, they were good.

I would have eaten a sixth, too. So I hunkered, and apologized to my A1C, which is too high.

The flight was endless, but finally I could tell we were getting close, so I checked the air map. We WERE getting close—only four hours and fifty two minutes left to go! My pod was such an upgrade from a regular airplane seat. Being able to stretch out is a luxury. But even Jerome Flynn couldn’t persuade me to stay asleep for more than two hours at a stretch. I feel pretty good now (waiting for my flight to Fiji) but I’m expecting that slightly dizzy, I’m Too Old To Pull An All-Nighter Anymore feeling any time now.

Hang on—while waiting to get off the plane, I took a stealth photo of the rows behind me.

See the white-haired lady who is still sitting? Looks like if Judy Dench was playing a tremendous Karen? I’m SURE she’s the one who complained bitterly that someone almost upset her champagne; my god, the NERVE! No handsome hero anywhere nearby, alas. But this is why writing fiction is SO satisfying. Why couldn’t it be Henry Cavill (without the beard) from that stupid movie? Of course it can. FICTION!

I was making a point…

Right. I got off the plane and wandered the various offerings to pick up some lunch. And the choices were ample. Many places. An entire food court. ALL of them eagerly serving up salt and sugar. The convenience stores all had long, threatening aisles of chocolate sending out evil Stephen King tendrils in an attempt to ensnare me. I managed to find a bag of roasted, unsalted almonds, so I’ll have SOMETHING to keep in my cabin. But after a great deal of staring at menus, I finally settled on a bagel with tomato, avocado, basil, and lemon fennel olive oil. (I wasn’t sure if that last part was one item, two, three, or the full four; would you ever put fennel on a bagel?) Turned out it was a combo of all four—a unmuscled slick of ambitionless oil poured over nearly-white tomato slices, which rested on a smear of plain old bad guacamole. I ended up scraping the goo off the bagel so I could at least eat that (I know—turns into sugar in the body, but what can I do?), and here’s an important travel tip: New Zealanders, while inevitably charming and friendly, do not know from bagels. The entire thing went into the trash.

So I am ill-equipped now. My attempt to maintain control over my food may have been shafted for the moment. I shall do my best, and regroup with renewed enthusiasm as soon as I can.

What a dull, whining post. I’m sorry. Here’s a picture of where I’m waiting to entertain you. If airport waiting rooms entertain you, that is…

Yeah. That’s GOOD and exotic. Right? Yeehah!

Here are some photos I took and intended to write about but (of course) forgot:

The business class “lounge” at the Dubai airport is actually an entire floor of the terminal. Many, many possible places to linger.

The Land Of Pods. I don’t know how many economy passengers they’ve packed in downstairs, but the business class is huge and filled to the brim.

Lots of airports won’t tell you your boarding gate until two hours before the flight; Aukland’s airport is the same. But unlike everywhere else, if you don’t know what your gate is yet, you are advised to “RELAX,” which I think typifies the glorious attitude of a wonderful nation. Calm down, Karen. Relax. Go get a glass of champagne somewhere. Or some chocolates. Or salt. Do you good, honey.

I’m hopeful that my Fiji posts will have rather more colorful photos and rather less whining!