Intentionally West.
A day after unpacking I repack. Less pairs of shorts, no sandals and four shirts as dress as my wardrobe allows. It’s work rather than a holiday. But I still shoehorn my camera gear into the same bag as last week, hoping that a luggage fascist is not on duty at the airport. Normally the elephantine size of other people’s hand baggage gives me a degree of moral leverage if objections are raised. Boarding a plane with telescope or a long lens draws suspicious glances and muffled accusations of espionage, but a double stack package of Crispy Kreme donuts, with special requests for sensitive handling and a personal overhead locker does not raise an eyebrow. I have to laugh, as I am no more likely to be a spy than the donuts are to be real food. Of all the things I have seen brought on to a planes, the donuts seem to be the most wilfully strange. Maybe their owners have just watched Alive, and have brought stores for a few months of hardship. I pass the time on