October 20. Flying over Europe.

Up Early. The bus to Heathrow operates timely, in the huge terminal five there are no complications. The flight is comfortable and comes with a lot of smiles and a 187,5 ml bottle of Ceyraz. I read the in-flight magazine, the featured article about a Brit riding his bike across the Netherlands and reporting his adventures in a smooth and eloquent word soup, the vermicelli of which I have to look up in a dictionary. I gaze out of the window (there is no child this time whom I can offer my window seat to) my head pressed against the warm plastic and recorded a moment of happiness as French pastures, winding rivers, a soft blanket of clouds and Swiss Alpine peaks pass underneath me.
The steel bird lands, an hour later I walk out of the airport with a visa and a stamp, take a commuter train into the city and find my way to the internet, that digital nipple I so insatiably and incessantly suck. The sky is already dark when I finally find a nice café with a friendly staff and a wireless connection. The Istanbul night begins and my most important life lesson is to take. An emergency couch request works out and Mehmet comes to pick me up. He is one of the friendliest guys I’ve ever met.

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