Watch Your Feet

The flight over is a mixed bag. On the one hand, they show Proof of Life. Not only is it a bad movie with a paramilitary fetish, it's also the same bad movie with a paramilitary fetish they showed on the last plane flight I took. On the other hand, they also show an episode of that Animal Planet show with the crazy Australian guy, in which he systematically pokes, prods, and otherwise provokes the deadliest snakes on the planet. One of them, displaying an almost vaudevillian sense of comedic timing, bites him. Much hilarity ensues.

In front of me is a family of six; one of the kids trips a flight attendant carrying a full tray of drinks. Her ferocious "Watch where you put your feet, please!" is priceless.

For me, it's been two red-eye flights in three days, on neither of which have I been able to sleep more than a couple of hours. We hit the ground running in Vienna, and in some kind of minor miracle, wake up the next day wholly adjusted to Central European Time.