Somewhere over the Pacific now, en Route to Sydney and on to Melbourne. Before departing, not one but four friends asked me to report back about the direction water flows when flushed down a toilet in the southern hemisphere. (See this site to learn about the urban legand they're referring to, a.k.a the Coriolis Fairy.)
Now, a brief dispatch, written from within the high-altitude hazy-brained bleary-eyed hallucinatory otherwold of jet lag. Wherever you go, there you are. I don't know who coined this phrase, or whether it's just one of those thoughts that has made the rounds, but the person who recently said it to me was my brother in law, who's also a pilot. Meanwhile, the guy in the seat in front of me has spent a lot of time with his forehead to the window, staring out at the darkness. What's on his mind?
However many hours later, my in-flight map says we're between Hawaii and Fiji. The only other cities labeled on the video map? Sapporo and Apia (Western Samoa).
Around Sydney, things look so verdant. But not for long. Connecting on to Melbourne, looking off the right side of the plane I get a hint of just how brown and dry most of this continent is.