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DRAFT

Welcome to LAX: Where dreams come true

(and you’re yelled at immediately)

We touched down at LAX exactly as planned — straight into the arms of America’s most welcoming tradition: being shouted at. Nothing says “Welcome to the USA” like a grumpy voice barking, “One line against the wall and wait!” Honestly, it’s incredible how Americans survive this daily without developing a permanent eye twitch. Respect.

Immigration? Survived. Security check #74 of the day? Also survived, though I think they now own a better collection of photos of me than my family.

Finally, after running the gauntlet, I made it to the new Air France lounge. New lounge, same old need for a beer. Despite the ungodly hour (somewhere between midnight and why-are-we-awake o’clock), that refreshing beer felt like a medal of honor. I even managed a solid hour of civilized relaxation before it was time to climb back aboard the metallic sausage tube for my next hop: LAX to PTT.

Same seat. New crew. And — gasp — a crew that actually seemed to know what they were doing! No one tripped over the service carts, and not once did I get handed someone else’s gluten-free vegan lactose-intolerant tofu wrap by mistake. This may very well be a first in the history of aviation. Still, a sternly-worded letter to Air France about the previous leg is absolutely brewing in the background. (Nothing says frequent flyer like a little polite outrage.)Meanwhile, I heroically adjusted my watch to Tahiti time: 9:15 p.m.
My body, however, was stubbornly clinging to French time: 9:15 a.m. the next day.
Basically, my internal clock was screaming “BRUNCH!” while everyone else was preparing to snooze. C’est la vie.

Dinner came (delicious!), followed by a delightfully ridiculous French comedy that was possibly only funny because of the altitude and wine combo. Then I slipped into blissful sleep — because weirdly, sleeping on planes is my hidden superpower. Honestly, give me a seat that reclines more than 15 degrees and I’m out faster than you can say “buckle up.”

I only stirred awake when the smell of fresh coffee wafted through the cabin — a scent so powerful it could raise the dead. I wriggled into my shorts and short-sleeved shirt (big island energy already kicking in), stuffed my jacket into my carry-on with all the elegance of a rugby scrum, and prepared myself for landing.

Touchdown was five minutes late, but who’s counting when paradise is waiting?
(Answer: Absolutely no one.)

Stay tuned: the adventure is just getting started — and my sense of time may catch up with me eventually. Or not. No promises.

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