Before the
final announcement to put seats and tables back into their proper positions,
her well-worn wake-up routine begins. A trip to the toilet comes first, where
she washes her face after wiping down all the surfaces with the last of her
disinfectant wipes. Teeth are brushed. Face cream is applied tenderly, along
with the minimum of make-up. Hands run through her electrostatic hair, then try
again with a bit of water. Nothing works. A few gentle slaps to her cheeks
follow, a vain attempt to draw a spark of energy from her inner battery, but it
has gone dead somewhere over the Atlantic.
While the others try to grab the last thirty minutes of sleep, in the desperate hope it will compensate for the many hours lost in watching one bad movie after another, her attention turns to cleaning up everything on and around her seat. The blanket is folded first and placed, along with the pillow, under the seat in front of her. Devices, books, and laptop are returned neatly to her leather purse.
Once upright, she makes sure the seatbelt, nestling her stomach, is clearly visible to the flight crew. With eyes closed, she begins her breathing exercises. She breathes slowly throughout the preparation for the landing, the crush of everyone trying to leave the plane at once, the walk on wobbly legs through endlessly long corridors in the terminal, the cattle drive at the customs area, and the irritation of watching luggage tumble onto conveyor belts that cannot manage their size, until everything becomes clogged.
