27 flights, 6 months, 1 heart. An essay.

It’s 27.

It’s really 27 flights, the number I reached in 6 months time, January to June 2016.

Never happened before, but I was secretly aiming to do it for a long time. Fun fact: I believe I’ve driven a car only a quarter (or less) of the times I took a plane. And by that I mean, I looove driving, but I was always somewhere else than a road. For stats lovers:

  • it seems it’s an average of 1 flight per week,
  • but it was more like coming and going, every 2 weeks;
  • the longer period I stayed home was less than 3 weeks, I believe 18 days;
  • the longest flight was 12h 30′ hours, HK to Munich in March with Lufthansa;
  • the shortest flight must have been Berlin-Paris, 1h and 20′.

What I have learnt so far:

  • people can’t pack, despite they think so;
  • people passing security have the ability of a red fish and won’t understand even their native language to follow simple instructions;
  • I don’t look nor sound Italian, at least the majority of people say talking to me;
  • the bra will always beeps in Europe. Use bralets and rock the nipples;
  • same as the bra, don’t be fussy and take off your shoes, it’s quicker;
  • even if you are tired, sleepy, sad or having a meltdown (and I’ve managed to be all the above) if you are super kind and friendly with flight attendants and people at the shops everything will run better up in the air and ground;
  • talking to guards and security makes you feeling safer and them useful, do it, don’t be only a stranger that passes by;
  • the duty free can be your best ally, especially during missions like “getting to the airport make-up free and boarding as if I was ready for a photo shoot” or “ew, I look like sh..eep”;

In a nutshell, it’s been a fairly crazy rollercoaster, full of iPod sessions, high hopes, waiting lounges and public transports.

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And it’s 6 already.

Yes, half of a year gone, another birthday passed away and I had the best NYE I can ever remember (thanks to a singing-in-the-car warrior). With temperatures spanning between a -23 in Vilnius in January to +34 in Berlin last week, it’s fair to say I had an intense time. Changing coats, changing hat, boots to sandals, smile to tears. Time spent working, time not spent blogging, time flying, time waiting, time following. I was mainly the one with the heart in a hand luggage. “High Hopes”, the motto of the year. And that brings to the third and last part of this essay.

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1 heart: Mine.

It’s got heavy, too heavy I fear to bring it as a hand luggage. I always wonder why people are afraid of explosions, when they should be scared of implosions. It’s such a more silent way to live in pieces.

I got told by a good friend that everyone has a big darkness inside, that many only show when they part ways. For me the aftermath has become a game of forgiveness and forgetfulness: I’m no longer sure I want to stay in that playground, but I kinda feel stuck.

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