I do it my way

🎄The Suitcase That Knew Better

Far too early really. So early, in fact, that even the alarm clock seemed to apologize when it went off at 4:45 a.m. But there are moments in life when sleep must be sacrificed on the altar of aviation, and this was one of them. Destination: Hannover airport. Objective: catch our first flight to Paris. Optimism level: unjustifiably high.

I had, of course, no intention whatsoever of giving up my hand luggage. I am one of those people. The kind who believes a small suitcase is not just a convenience but a philosophy, a way of life, a moral stance. Unfortunately, the Air France agent had a different belief system and insisted—politely, firmly, mercilessly—that the Paris–Toulouse flight was completely full. The tone suggested resistance would be futile and possibly frowned upon by international aviation authorities.

So I capitulated. I handed over my case. It was a moment of weakness. The suitcase left me with a look that clearly said, “You’ll regret this.”

The flight to Paris was pleasant and mercifully short. We even arrived a luxurious 20 minutes ahead of schedule, which in aviation terms is practically time travel. The transfer from Terminal 2G to 2F by shuttle was swift, efficient, and suspiciously smooth—never a good sign in retrospect. We had plenty of time before our flight to Toulouse, which, true to prophecy, was indeed completely full. Every seat occupied, every overhead bin bulging with coats, bags, and quiet resentment.

Just before landing, the captain cheerfully announced that the brilliant sunshine had been replaced by thick fog and that we would be circling northeast of the airport for about seven minutes. Seven minutes, he said, as if we were going around the block to look for parking. Still, we landed on schedule because aviation likes to keep you guessing.

Straight to the luggage area we went. And guess what.

The cases did not make it out of Paris

This information was delivered not by a human, but by the brand-new tracker discreetly nestled in one of the suitcases—an investment that proved its worth instantly and smugly. Paris, it said. Still in Paris.

Now, under normal circumstances, this might have caused mild irritation, dramatic sighing, or possibly interpretive dance. But context is everything. Only ten days earlier, arriving in Hannover, we had enjoyed a thrilling five-day experience called Living Without Luggage, complete with emergency shopping for clothes, toiletries, and other essentials—currently the subject of a still-pending reimbursement claim with KLM.

So this time? Nothing. No anger. No despair. Not even sarcasm. We’re going home. Everything we need is already there. Toothbrushes, clothes, dignity—well, most of it.

What fascinates me is the pattern. I normally travel only with hand luggage. The two times I don’t? The suitcases decide to explore Europe independently. Coincidence? I think not. My luggage clearly has a rich inner life and a deep affection for Charles de Gaulle Airport.

No doubt the cases will turn up within 24 hours. There are plenty of planes shuttling daily between CDG and Toulouse, and my suitcase has always struck me as the patient type—once it’s done making a point.

Lesson learned (again): never betray your luggage philosophy. It remembers. And it travels.

🎄 Final day

The final day began in the only sensible way possible: lazily. Absolutely nothing planned for the morning, which I dedicated almost entirely to the noble arts of relaxation and advanced canine interaction. The dogs and I reached a mutual understanding: they demanded attention, I provided it, everyone won.

Lunch was swift and nostalgic, consisting of the heroic leftovers from an Asian takeaway consumed two days earlier. I am fairly certain it had become spicier with age. Either that, or my taste buds were simply trying to entertain themselves. Let’s call it maturation rather than imagination.

Early afternoon saw us driving to Algermissen to say goodbye to the two kiddies and their parents. A temporary farewell only—we might bump into each other again in about six weeks somewhere in southern Europe, because that’s how families work these days. The visit also had a strategic purpose: retrieving the large suitcase we had prudently left behind. After recent experiences, it felt reassuring to actually see a suitcase and know exactly where it was.

Back at my daughter’s in the late afternoon, we embarked on the highly technical exercise of packing. This involved trying to fit newly acquired clothes and Christmas presents into a suitcase that had clearly shrunk since the morning. Just as we were making progress (or at least convincing ourselves we were), a message arrived from my friend Klaus inviting us over for a last drink at 7 p.m.

Despite the cold, and despite the inconvenient detail that it required a 20-minute walk, we agreed. Some invitations you simply can’t refuse—especially when they involve alcohol and nostalgia.

At this point, a small reminder: Klaus used to be my direct neighbour when we lived in Gehrden. Sitting in his living room, casually watching our former house through the window, is an experience best described as mildly surreal and slightly unsettling. It’s like time travel, but without the special effects.

Still, we had a proper natter. Some chose wine. I remained loyal to beer, with a few whiskies joining the conversation later on. Eventually, we made our way back to my daughter’s place for what was supposed to be an early night.

It was early.
It was a night.
But it was definitely not long.

🌲Final day but one

🇬🇧

Yesterday had that rare quality of being quietly excellent, the kind you only recognise once you’re safely back under a duvet.

We escaped Algermissen late morning, the thermometer stuck at a resolute –8°C, roads polished to an Olympic-level shine. Destination: Hannover, and more importantly, a lunch date with our granddaughter — a luxury item these days, rare and therefore priceless. The news she brought could have been wrapped and placed under a tree: final exam results looking very promising and a job starting on February 1st. Honestly, at that point the frost outside could do whatever it liked — the day was already thawed.

Back in Gehrden by early afternoon, I honoured a long-standing family tradition: the post-travel nap, necessitated by a night that had been more philosophical than restorative. By 5 pm, however, it was time to re-enter civilisation and head to the Hischenhus, where Klaus had invited half the region to help him celebrate another successful year of existence.

And they all came. Friends, laughter, familiar faces — some not seen in far too long — all lubricated by a very cooperative supply of beer. Conversation flowed easily, memories were exchanged, and for a few hours the outside world politely waited its turn.

The ten-minute walk home, uphill and through biting cold, felt almost virtuous — a final purification before the reward of a warm house and an even warmer bed. One of those days that doesn’t shout, doesn’t pose, but leaves you thinking: yes, this one was worth keeping.

🇫🇷

Avant-dernier jour

Hier, voyez-vous, avait ce petit goût rare des journées qui ne font pas de bruit mais qui comptent double.

Nous avons quitté Algermissen en fin de matinée, sous un froid qui vous remet les idées en place : moins huit degrés, et des routes lustrées comme un comptoir de bistrot un soir de fête. Cap sur Hanovre pour un déjeuner avec notre petite-fille — une chose devenue si rare qu’elle en prend aussitôt des allures de cérémonie. Et comme si cela ne suffisait pas, les nouvelles étaient bonnes, même très bonnes : examens finaux en bonne voie, résultats attendus avec optimisme, et un travail qui commence le 1er février. Que demander de plus ? À ce stade-là, le gel pouvait bien faire ce qu’il voulait, le cœur, lui, était au soleil.

Retour à Gehrden en début d’après-midi, chez ma fille. Et là, fidèle à une sagesse ancestrale, je me suis accordé une sieste réparatrice, rendue nécessaire par une nuit plus tourmentée que reposante — une de ces nuits où l’on refait le monde sans parvenir à dormir dedans.

À 17 heures, il fallut pourtant se refaire une beauté et reprendre la route, direction le Hischenhus, où Klaus avait convié la terre entière — ou du moins tous ceux qui comptent — pour fêter son anniversaire. Et chose rare, tout le monde est venu. Des amis chers, des visages qu’on n’avait pas vus depuis longtemps, des éclats de rire, des souvenirs qui circulaient aussi librement que la bière. On parlait bien, on parlait vrai, et chacun repartait un peu plus riche qu’en arrivant.

La montée finale, dix minutes à pied dans un froid piquant, jusqu’à la maison de ma fille, avait quelque chose de salutaire, presque mérité. Et quand enfin je me suis glissé dans un lit bien chaud, j’ai pensé que certaines journées n’ont pas besoin de fanfare : elles se contentent d’exister, et c’est déjà beaucoup.

🌲Boxing Day

Very cold here this morning, -10c, the ground is white with frost and surely I shall have to scrape the windscreen of the car when we go out later on. After breakfast and some experimental packing to see if the presents father xmas was kind enough to give me yesterday and the additional clothes bought to cater for the fact that the suitcases were stuck 5 days in the suitcase mountain at Amsterdam airport will fit in, we shall drive back to Gehrden where friends await us for the obligatory long walk. Whether I have the right clothing for the cold weather is very debatable but we shall cope for sure. A hot soup or preferably a couple of large whiskies by the fireplace at Joerg and Heidrun should sort that out later this afternoon and since we are going to sleep there it appears to me to be the right decision to take. But before all that, father xmas also delivered many Lego boxes to the kiddies and who can resist giving a hand building some wonderful machines, not me.

🎄Xmas morning – Thursday 25th

Christmas Day began the only way it can begin when young grandchildren are involved: early. Very early. Somewhere between “still dark” and “why am I awake?”, we set off for Algermissen, knowing that two small humans were already fully operational and mentally positioned under the Christmas tree.

Outside, Gehrden was frozen solid at –8°C. The roads looked deceptively calm, the kind of calm that whispers black ice. I drove accordingly: slow, careful, and with both hands firmly on the wheel — festive excitement is no excuse for festive skating.

After the initial frenzy — the tearing, the shouting, the “Look at this!” repeated approximately 127 times — calm slowly returned. Breakfast was finally allowed to happen, and then the serious business began: detailed inspection of every toy, instruction manual ignored, batteries mysteriously missing, and imaginations running at full speed.

Christmas morning, in short, was exactly as it should be.

🎄Day six, Midday

Solar powered optimism and other miracles

The sun is out. Not poetically, not metaphorically, but usefully out. This is important, because a small Renault ZOE is currently tethered to my son’s house like a calf to its mother, greedily sucking up every photon produced by the solar panels. Why pay for electricity when the universe is handing it out for free? This, dear reader, is what I call renewable opportunism.

While the ZOE is quietly photosynthesising, we tackled another great modern adventure: the online reimbursement claim to Air France / KLM. A process best described as “optimistic paperwork with a suspense element.” We submitted receipts, explanations, justifications, and possibly a small prayer. Now we wait, hopeful but emotionally prepared for an answer that begins with “We regret to inform you…”.

In our defence, we have been remarkably frugal while our luggage enjoyed its own extended holiday elsewhere. Only essentials were purchased. Absolute necessities. Survival items. Things without which civilisation would surely collapse. And yet, when you add it all up, the total amount looks less like “missing luggage compensation” and more like “down payment on a small yacht.” Still, we stand by every purchase. Mostly.

With the great administrative battles temporarily over, it is now time for the truly demanding part of the day: entertaining the grandkids. This involves energy levels no solar panel could ever supply. After that, lunch—because even superheroes need fuel—followed by a strategic rest. Not a nap, you understand. A horizontal meditation.

Later, we shall prepare for the evening expedition back to Gehrden, where dinner awaits at our friends’ house. Wine is expected to flow. Possibly rivers, maybe even tributaries. In a rare and welcome moment of foresight, we have decided not to drive back afterwards but to spend the night there instead. This is called responsibility. Or wisdom. Or experience.

So ends Day 6, Midday: powered by the sun, funded by hope, fuelled by family, and wisely concluding with wine and a guest bed. If only Air France / KLM could run on solar energy too.

🎄Day six, 5 a.m.

When Germany sleeps and bloggers don’t

Day six of our Christmas expedition to Germany, and here I am at an hour usually reserved for bakers, milk bottles, and philosophical thoughts best left unexamined. Sleep, that loyal companion of calmer lives, has decided to remain elusive—possibly offended by our recent adventures or simply overwhelmed by them.

The good news (and this deserves a small brass band): the missing suitcases finally made their triumphant return yesterday. Slightly travel-weary, perhaps, but intact—and more importantly, carrying the Christmas presents. Christmas is saved. Order has been restored. Panic officially downgraded to anecdote.

With luggage reunited and festive catastrophe averted, my mind drifts back to earlier highlights.

And so here I am, watching the darkness thin out over Germany, suitcase drama resolved, Christmas secured, golf memories filed under “unexpected joys,” and sleep… still missing in action. No matter. Some trips are measured not in hours slept, but in stories collected. By that metric, day six is already a resounding success.

🎄Day five

The return of the suitcases (mostly alive)

Five days and four hours later—yes, I counted—we were finally reunited with our suitcases. It was an emotional moment. There were no tears, but there could have been applause.

My suitcase arrived looking like it had lived a full and adventurous life. Possibly several lives. It bears the unmistakable signs of having been manhandled by professionals who clearly believe luggage builds character through adversity. Miraculously, the contents survived. Socks still paired, toothpaste still sealed, Christmas presents still innocent of any idea of what they’d been through.

The suitcases were delivered by courier from HAJ (Hannover Airport) straight to our son’s house in Algermissen, where we shall sleep tonight. A sensible decision, since after five days of luggage-related suspense, one needs a familiar roof and strong moral support.

Before that, however, we are heading back to Hannover to meet our oldest son, who has reserved a table for dinner in town. A civilised ending to a day that began with cardboard boxes, tracking numbers, and the faint smell of airport warehouses.

Meanwhile, the kiddies will soon be back from playschool, which means my window of opportunity is closing. I must urgently begin The Great KLM Reimbursement Claim. This will involve listing all the “essential” items we were forced to buy in the absence of our worldly possessions.

The total is… impressive. Let’s just say that being without luggage for five days turns one into a philosopher with very specific needs.

Good luck to us with that claim.
If KLM reimburses quickly, it will be a Christmas miracle.
If not, at least we have our suitcases back—and they’ve clearly enjoyed their holiday.

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🎄Day four

KLM, luggage tracking and the art of saving Christmas

The messages proudly announced that our luggage had finally arrived at Hannover airport and would be delivered “as soon as possible” by a carrier to the address provided. Music to my ears. Angels singing. Reindeer warming up.

But then—because optimism never travels alone—I checked the KLM World Tracker web page.

According to KLM’s digital oracle, the bags are not heading to where we actually are. No. They are apparently on a determined pilgrimage back to our permanent address in France. Several hundred kilometres away. A bold choice.

Now, this would merely be mildly annoying under normal circumstances. Except for one small detail: all our Christmas presents are in those two suitcases. Every single one. Carefully chosen, lovingly wrapped (in my head), and currently enjoying an extended European tour.

So here we are, suspended between two realities:

• The reassuring SMS, promising imminent delivery.
• The tracking website, calmly rerouting Christmas to France.

I am choosing to believe that common sense will prevail, that logistics will triumph over algorithms, and that KLM will indeed save Christmas. Preferably before Santa notices the competition.

Stay tuned. The fate of Christmas is now officially in the hands of a barcode, a carrier, and whatever mood the tracking system wakes up in tomorrow. 

🎄Lost luggage, found appetite

My suitcase is still somewhere out there, living its best life without me. I imagine it sipping cocktails in an airport lounge, utterly unconcerned by the fact that I, its rightful owner, am down to a very small rotation of clothes and an even smaller sense of patience. No matter. One must adapt. And so, armed with optimism and a debit card, I am off to Hannover for what airlines politely call “essential shopping” and what I call rebuilding a wardrobe from scratch, one pair of socks at a time.

Once the vital items are secured (underwear first, dignity later), I’ll be meeting an old friend — the kind where conversation resumes as if you last spoke yesterday, not several decades ago. And then, inevitably, as sure as missing luggage follows air travel, lunch at the glorious Markthalle Hannover awaits. Because if your suitcase has abandoned you, the least you deserve is good food, bustling stalls, and the comforting knowledge that no matter where your luggage is, you are exactly where you should be: at a table, with a plate, telling stories and laughing about lost things that don’t really matter.

🎄The snowman, time travel and the great Amsterdam suitcase museum

The night was perfectly peaceful. Almost suspiciously so. That should have been my first warning.

Peace lasted until the youngest of the grandchildren decided that my bed was, in fact, a trampoline. This energetic intervention brought my rest to an abrupt and very definitive end. There is no snooze button when a small human is bouncing enthusiastically on your chest.

After breakfast, we gathered around my laptop to watch the timeless classic The Snowman. When my own children were small, I must have watched it at least a thousand times. Possibly more. And yet, more than thirty years later, it remains an absolute hit with the grandchildren. Proof that some things age beautifully—unlike the person watching it.

That’s the good news.

The less good news is that there is still absolutely no information about our lost suitcases. They are most likely resting peacefully somewhere in Amsterdam Airport, possibly in what is now the world’s largest temporary luggage exhibition. Rumour has it that around 20,000 suitcases are involved. Ours have presumably made friends by now.

No one, it seems, is able to give any precise information. Not when. Not where. Not even a comforting “soon.” The suitcases have officially entered the realm of legend.

Which leaves me with only one possible course of action.

I may have to go shopping again tomorrow. There are still a couple of “essentials” missing items that, until very recently, I had managed to survive without for decades. But needs must, and apparently Amsterdam has decided to sponsor my wardrobe update.

At this point, I’m beginning to wonder whether the suitcases will ever return… or whether they’ll simply reappear one day, confused, overdressed, and entirely unnecessary.

🎄Dogs, duty-free humans and the joy of emergency shopping

I am not entirely sure what woke me up first: the urgent need to go to the bathroom, or my daughter’s three large dogs staging a full-scale rescue operation outside our bedroom door. They are always delighted to see us when we visit, and I have to admit the enthusiasm is very much mutual—although perhaps slightly less vocal on our side.

By 9:30 a.m., we were up, presentable, and revising the day’s plans. With our suitcases still pursuing their own independent cultural exchange programme, we decided it was time for serious emergency shopping. Clothes for the next couple of days were no longer a luxury; they were a strategic necessity.

Fortunately, my daughter’s Renault ZOE came with unexpected privileges. Electric car parking in Hannover is free for two and a half hours, which immediately made us feel morally superior to all internal combustion engines. We even found a spot right in front of the Markthalle, which felt nothing short of miraculous. Coffee and croissants followed—both excellent—and the place brought back memories of a time when I used to meet friends there early in the morning on my way to work, back when mornings felt younger and coffee felt optional.

From there, it was only a short walk to the main shopping streets. We split up, each convinced the other would make questionable choices. We reunited at the cashiers, arms full, faces triumphant, and wallets noticeably lighter. After a couple of hours, we returned to the car with bags full of brand-new “essentials”—items we had been perfectly capable of living without until Amsterdam decided otherwise.

Next stop: Algermissen, where our youngest son awaited us with the grandchildren. And what a welcome that was. At that age, a few months make an astonishing difference. The eldest, now five, finally decided that English was worth attempting with me. A breakthrough moment—possibly encouraged by the promise of future rewards.

The grandchildren, being the main reason for the trip, immediately lifted my spirits. I should add that we have other grandchildren too, significantly older and therefore harder to impress. They will be seen later this week.

The rest of the day unfolded exactly as it should: stories were read, games were played, Father Christmas was briefly visited, the obligatory Bratwurst was consumed, Christmas carols were endured enthusiastically, and the day concluded with a pizza dinner at the local Italian restaurant. Cultural integration at its finest.

Back at our son’s place for the night, the children were finally in bed, silence returned, and—almost ceremoniously—a bottle of whisky appeared on the table.

Proof, if any were needed, that even a day that starts without luggage can end extremely well.

🎄Proof that time passes, but pubs don’t

Over the previous days, a few friends had contacted us and we agreed to meet in the centre of our little town, where carol singers were due to perform. The rendezvous was set for 6 p.m.

As we were a little early, we naturally did the sensible thing and went to the bar next to the meeting point: Linie 10.

Nothing had changed. Not the décor. Not the clientele. The only noticeable difference was that both were now eight years older. And, to my great surprise, it was still a smoking bar. I genuinely thought this had become illegal sometime in the last century, but apparently Linie 10 lives in a parallel universe where regulations politely knock and then go away.

The place brought back a flood of memories. At 6 p.m., after a small Pils—purely for nostalgic reasons—we stepped outside. Our friends were already there, along with quite a few other familiar faces. In fact, I realised that I knew or recognised almost everyone. Either the town is very small, or I have been coming here for far too long. Possibly both.

After a few carols, we migrated across the small square to the mulled wine stand, where—unsurprisingly—we bumped into yet more acquaintances. Clearly, the entire town had agreed on the same evening plan without consulting us.

By around 7:30 p.m., most of us relocated to our local pub, the Hischenhus, where even more people we knew were already enjoying a pint. We spent the rest of the evening there, catching up, laughing, and feeling completely at home—as if we had never left eight years ago.

The ten-minute walk home did us a world of good, and we were in bed at a very reasonable hour.

Some places change.
Some people change.
But a good pub, familiar faces, and that feeling of belonging?
Apparently, they age remarkably well.

So far, this trip had delivered a familiar travel cocktail: strategic planning to outsmart tractors, festive evenings in Toulouse, heroic early mornings, polite queues, mysteriously independent suitcases, and emergency shopping that nobody ever plans for—but always remembers.

And yet, despite delayed flights, absent luggage, and the modern efficiency of computer screens that refuse to cooperate, something rather comforting had happened along the way.

We had arrived.

Not just geographically, but emotionally. In a town where the bars hadn’t changed, the pubs still felt like home, the faces were familiar, and eight years seemed to have passed without anyone really noticing. Between mulled wine, old friends, and a ten-minute walk home, the stress of travel quietly faded into the background.

Suitcases may take their own time.
Journeys may rarely go as planned.
But some destinations don’t need luggage at all.

🎄The Great Suitcase Disappearance

The transfer in Amsterdam was smooth enough, which already felt suspicious. We even had time to buy the duty-free chocolates we had heroically abandoned in Toulouse a few hours earlier. Clearly, civilisation had not entirely collapsed yet.

There was, however, a 30-minute delay before departure to our final destination, Hannover. Nothing dramatic—just enough to remind us that this short KLM flight is never taken under ideal conditions. I don’t think I have ever boarded it fully rested. In the past, it was usually after landing from a long-haul flight from Asia, jet-lagged and sleep-deprived. This time, it was thanks to an indecently early start from a European city that, inexplicably, has no direct flights to Hannover. Different cause, same exhaustion.

The approach to Hannover Airport (HAJ) holds no mysteries for me. I’ve done it many times as a passenger, once from the jump seat of a private jet, a couple of times assisting my friend Armin on a private plane, and once—most memorably—at the controls of an Airbus A320. Granted, that was in a simulator in Hamburg, but it still counts. A fantastic birthday present and proof that I can land an A320… provided nobody is actually on board.

We landed about 30 minutes late. At least we did.

Our luggage did not.

Some forty passengers—including ourselves—were informed, in no uncertain terms, that “there are no more suitcases to be unloaded.” End of discussion. We rushed to the luggage service office, which, unlike in the old days, had been replaced by two computer screens. These screens stubbornly refused to accept the numbers we typed, possibly out of solidarity with the missing suitcases.

A helpful notice explained that everything could be done online… within a couple of days. Comforting.

Armed with this optimism, we climbed into our son-in-law’s car and headed to his house. Online, we discovered the reassuring news that due to a software issue, some 20,000 bags had been stuck in Amsterdam the day before alone. Sorting it out could take days. Excellent.

Only one solution remained: emergency shopping. First, the absolute essentials. Then, a carefully considered list of essentials needed for “a few days”—a concept that tends to expand rapidly.

But first: lunch.

At one of our favourite Italian restaurants from when we used to live in Gehrden. The staff recognised us immediately and were genuinely happy to see us, which almost made us forget that all our belongings were currently enjoying an extended stay in Amsterdam.

Then came the shopping next door. Essentials were purchased. Dignity was partially preserved.

Back at our daughter’s place, it was finally time for a much-needed nap—proof that while suitcases may travel independently, exhaustion is always punctual.

🎄How to Outsmart Farmers, Tractors, and Alarm Clocks

So, the farmers were at it again.

By “at it,” I mean heroically blocking roads, motorways, roundabouts, slip roads, and possibly a few secret paths known only to goats. And of course, on that day, we had to drive to Toulouse airport.

Fortunately, a rare moment of strategic brilliance occurred: we had decided to leave one day earlier than our indecently early flight and treat ourselves to the luxury of an airport hotel. This meant getting up at 4 a.m. instead of 2 a.m.—a difference that, at that hour, feels roughly equivalent to winning the lottery.

But the real advantage? Time. Time to avoid tractors, barricades, and visibly annoyed farmers by taking the scenic route—also known as every B road in the département. We glided past sleepy villages, untouched by agricultural fury, and arrived at the airport without seeing a single pitchfork. Victory.

After checking into the hotel and abandoning the car in the pre-arranged long-term car park (always a leap of faith), we called an Uber and headed into town. Destination: Place du Capitole, where the Christmas market was in full swing.

Lights, colours, crowds, mulled wine—was there a better place for an aperitif? I think not. Any argument to the contrary will be ignored.

Dinner followed a few hundred metres away at the Indian restaurant Maharaja, which turned out to be excellent. So excellent, in fact, that it has already secured a place on our “we’ll definitely come back here” list—a list that is long, optimistic, and rarely consulted again.

Across the road, the bar La Réserve was packed. Miraculously, one single table was free. One. Clearly fate wanted us to have a nightcap. We accepted the hint, enjoyed a drink, and then did the unthinkable: went to bed early.

Too early.

As usual, my internal alarm clock—unreliable, unnecessary, and impossible to disable—decided to wake me up before the real alarm. So when 4 a.m. finally arrived, I was already fully awake and deeply resentful.

The next couple of hours were spent doing what modern air travel does best: standing in slow-moving queues. Queue to check in. Queue to drop bags. Queue for security. Queue to breathe. We even had to abandon the idea of buying duty-free chocolates because the queue to pay was moving at geological speed. Some pleasures are not worth the sacrifice.

Just time for a coffee before boarding our flight to Amsterdam, which—miraculously—departed on time at 6:15 a.m.

And here I am now, at 30,000 feet, halfway to our destination, typing these lines. The Air France stewardess is charming, professional, and without question the best thing that has happened so far today.

Germany awaits.
Eventually.

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