Perched amid the unwonted luxury of the Delta Sky Club at the Atlanta Airport, having slammed down two free bloody Mary’s. Never coach, ever again. . . . Encountered the Kirbys at the airport. The melancholy of the last few days led to an ideal departure, which is to say, one without expectations. Slept through the first flight. Plan to try to do the same to Amsterdam. Seven and a half hour layover– a whole work day. Try not to think of it–
Four years ago I first set foot in Istanbul.
What do I want? I want to be a night-haired Connemara lad playing for Ireland in the World Cup. Can someone get that for me?