Not much to report about the flight over. I was sitting in a side aisle seat, next to an older Englishman who lives in the country. (Before we landed, he tied a cravat around his neck, which was just so ... older Englishman who lives in the country.) He didn't like flying so coped with it by ordering two drinks (both whisky), tossing them back in quick order, and falling right to sleep.
(Which plan I might emulate on long flights in the future -- but I didn't think drinking was a good idea as I was packin' Nyquil.)
The problem with the slightly-drunk sleeping Englishman is that he wasn't as respectful of his neighbor's personal space as your standard Awake Englishman would be. So he was sleeping on the armrest, leaning into my shoulder, with his legs leaning into my space such that I had to bend myself into all sorts of interesting positions so as not to actually touch knees with the man. (And when I glanced over at him and saw his hand resting on his, er ... his ... his ... well, I just thought, "it probably means nothing, but eww.") So I asked the flight attendant if there was another vacant seat, she took one look at the fine representative of the UK to my left, and said she'd see what she could do.
Five minutes later I was in the next cabin, stretched out across three unused center seats, and doing an approximation of napping.
(I couldn't ACTUALLY sleep. I had some damn song running through my head I couldn't get rid of, and I didn't bring any music I could've played to drown it out.)
So ... got here with less rest than I generally like, did my usual Run Through Immigration and Customs (first in line! Yay me!) and found my lovely hotel.
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