Wales? Isn't that by Dubai?

Thursday 25th March

Day Two: Hop on a plane

'Good morning Miss Dickenson, here is your 5:30am wake up call'.

Urgh. How is it that even when you're really, really, twitchingly excited to get going somewhere, early mornings are still a cosmic struggle? I roll out of bed, fumbling about in the dark to find a light switch and clamber for the kettle. 2 cups of tea, 30 seconds of power showering, 1 banana and I'm off.

By the time I've hauled my suitcase to the airport (or the plane station as I referred to it whilst grappling about for the real term the other day) I'm all hot and bothered- not the ideal condition for someone with a 10 hour flight looming ahead of them. I squeeze onto the shuttle to North Terminal and count bum bags to keep me awake. The guy at the Delta desk perks me up a little with his cheeky banter and I join in asking him to bump me up to business class. He places me in the middle seat of the middle aisle in economy- the hateful trout. That's the last time I flirt with a man over the age of 50 to get what I want (what a terrific lie this is).

I walk into departures, relieved to not have 22kg trawling behind me anymore, buy a sandwich from Boots and find my gate. The waiting lounge is dark and deserted but an impressive glass window spans the right wall, detailing planes rampaging about

in the sullen morning with little men running about like ants to a coke can. A good 30 minutes pass as I watch the rain sweep across the runway, puncturing planes as they shuttle into the sky and disappear into the bleak swell of clouds. People start to meander down to the lounge, holiday excitement clipping the air but my splintered sleep from the night before rages about in my head and pulls me into a desperate sleep. The announcement for my flight wakes me up and I see people moving towards the doors. I heave myself up, retrieve my passport (my vacant picture seems quite fitting right now) and make my way onto the plane.

The man at the desk wasn't lying. Here I am, sandwiched between 2 men who are both commandeering the arm rests. Neither, though possibly wonderful examples of their red-blooded race, resemble anything that could equate to a 10 hour plane romance. I still resolve that one day I shall be placed next to a Gael Garcia Bernal lookalike with the somber intonations of Alan Rickman and he'll look into my eyes and go 'fancy a game of travel Scrabble?' and I will be sold. Yet as I get settled in, I find that the man to my left is flying back home to California after a business trip and the man to my right is visiting friends in Asheville, North Carolina. I feel a little grateful as the plane thunders across the runway that my one and only stop is Atlanta and that I can escape this vacuum of anticipation much sooner than them.

Perhaps I should have blessed my rickety night's sleep as I wake 5 hours into the flight with a crick in my neck as a souvenir. I did try collapsing against the desk in front of me but modern logistics and a lack of flexibility refrained me. That, and man 1 and man 2 seemed to be paying close attention to my frantic fidgeting with great amusement. As I straighten myself up, I start chatting to man 1. He's an ex-navy sailor, John McCain supporter with a penchant for pretzels. He questions if I have a boyfriend at home before asking if I want to be set up with his 27 year old airforce pilot son who's currently serving in Afghanistan. I chuckle and tell him if his son is willing to pick me up in his private jet, I'd be more than up for it. More so, this would definitely reach the credentials my Mum pretends to adhere to: manly, well paid job and intelligent. Man 2 is a newly divorced manager of an international consultancy business who enjoys entertaining the old biddys in the home across the road with early morning 'au naturale' stretches. He tells me how he's constantly being frisked in airports because he smiles too much and I vow to keep a drab visage as I pass through immigration.

I love how you can tell and find out so much about a person on a flight yet never know their name. It's like that forced situation forms a bond encapsulated in that small space which melts with the crowds as they waft into the airport.

Once off the plane, I scatter through the throng and bustle into immigration. I'm starting to get really excited now but the long wait is starting to ween against my energy again. A screen above flashes images of Georgia and I'm wracked with nostalgia as pictures of the University of Georgia, Emory and the Coca-Cola building spin across the screen. Oglethorpe, my old University would never make it onto these screens with it's peewee population of 1,000 but these places form the rowdy background to my idyllic suburban college. Translators are called from booth to booth and finally, its me. How they always manage to make you feel guilty is unbeknown to me, but I escape the searching eyes of 'Ms. Rivera' unscathed with a bold stamp bolstering about my new passport.

I pick up my luggage before dropping it off again (I always found this a bizarre system) before meeting my first true Georgian. The man at the bag drop off asks me where I'm flying from. After answering he quips in 'What, gorgeousville?'. I laugh and give him a high five. I've missed this brazen yet benevolent attitude. There really is such a thing as Southern hospitality and they're eager to dole it out. I make my way through security, slink through the closing doors of the transit train and leap up the escalator to the swarms of friends and family that strain against the arrivals barrier.

However, since I've whipped around immigration and security in a mere 30 minutes, my friends haven't arrived yet so I pick up my suitcase again and trundle off to find some food. Within 10 seconds I can hear the bold bellowing of the Wendy's staff, their accents dripping in a Southern drawl and purchase a Sprite and some fries. Sitting down, I take in the scenes of families clambering into eachothers arms, kisses exchanged between tight, smitten hugs and signs being dropped to the floor.

An hour later and feeling I might have been forgotten, I feel a tap on my shoulder to find Erik's gleaming face staring back at me. It scares the life out of me and I squeal out loud in a mixture of excitement and terror. I grasp for him over the barrier before scurrying around and properly greeting him and Rebecca who take my case off me and wheel me to the car. On the way out, a woman stops us and asks where I'm from. I answer accordingly to which she replies 'Wales? Isn't that by Dubai?'. I suppress a giggle before kindly informing her 'Yes, that's it' and heading out the exit. I got a lot of 'Did you know Princess Diana?' comments last year, but this one is certainly the best I've heard by far.

In the car, Erik, Rebecca and I slip straight back into the usual banter that rendered our lives last year. Erik updates me on the latest Ogle gossip and Rebecca calls me demeaning names (whorebaby) which only makes me long for living at Oglethorpe full time even more. We head back to Rebecca's where I grab a shower (at last! Freshness!) and we drive to R. Thomas's for food. It's a little place down Peachtree that does the most fantastic wholesome food. Sat inside a psychedelic tent, parrots squawking at us from the outside, we order. I choose Veggie Sloppy Joes with cinnamon sweet potatoes and red slaw and god its wonderful. However, my desperate need for sleep is starting to ebb in and after stabbing myself in the chin with a straw, headbutting the table and falling into the backseat of the car, I subside into a coma like state as we drive home.

There's nothing harder than getting up when you're riddled with fatigue, but I climb the stairs to Rebecca's apartment, brush my teeth and collapse into the blue mass of quilt, finally letting sleep engulf me and drag me into its hot, fervent abyss.