As a septuagenarian hobbit (a stay-at-home 70-something), I board a plane the way I get into an Athens taxi: I accept my death. After that I can relax.
I leave the pseudo-leather folder containing my will and insurance policies out on my desk. Clearly labelled.
When I was a mere 50-something hobbit, I actually flew to the other place. Very instructive. https://115journals.com/2012/07/20/i-dream-of-etherica-life-changing-dream-2/
My eastern medical adviser says this idea results from liver heat. General Liver is trying to help my weak, damp digestion by going into battle. The fire rises to my head and produces scarey images.
My western medical adviser prescribes Lorazepam. Which I carry on my body in case I have to slid down the escape exit without my purse.
I have given up wine with airline breakfast. Too dehydrating.
Last time this hobbit went on an adventure it was Christmas season and I flew to Belgium. See https://115journals.com/2013/11/28/the-septuagenarian-hobbit/ and posts following. There I contended with the confusion of three languages and found myself embraced by mon frère and his many friends. Turned out I was so Europianized by my three week stay that I found it hard to adjust back. https://115journals.com/2014/01/05/the-septuagenarian-hobbit-gets-a-parking-lesson/
This time there will be no language problem. Well almost none, although Los Angeles is near the top of the list of large Spanish-speaking cities.
I am due to arrive on Cinco de Mayo, a day of celebration. So nice of people to party on my birthday. For indeed it is. After this, I’ll have only one more septuagenarian birthday. Figure it out.
So what to do? Shall we immediately set out for the mountain fastness where Julia now lives. Not a chance. Let’s round up a little party of our own, hit that place in Culver City and crash at someone’s house when we are partied out.
I don’t travel for the love of travel. I travel for love.