February 15, 2017:

Trapped by trays. Unable to shift position for 90 minutes before rescued by trash service, so that the subsequent ten hours begin with numb ass and legs, and get worse.

The flaccid Austrian housewife in B has a bad cold. She spends the entire flight hacking up flegm balls, without covering her mouth.

I read The Iliad; watch the cartoon plane move achingly slowly across the cartoon ocean; hold my breath for countdown to descent. All the while vibrant after-images of Adrianou and Syntagma and Veikou are fresh and urgent. It's not a happy homecoming.