Checked out of the hotel, got a cab to the airport. Waited in line to check my bag, waited in line to dump out my water bottle, waited in line to take off my shoes and do the TSA shuffle, waited in line to refill my water bottle, waited in line for food, waited in line for the bathroom. Settled at gate and cracked open paperback. The PA system announced a gate change. Resettled at new gate and recracked open paperback. The flight is delayed. Not rare. The flight is completely full. Not rare.
I am tired. Not. Rare.
I'm tired of empty refrigerators, of small white hotel bath towels, of strange coffee shops that don't know me and my order when I walk in the door. I'm done with bagged tea steeped in water that doesn't taste like home.
And planes. And trains. And automobiles.
It was a good trip. I accomplished stuff. I learned stuff. I'm inspired and ready to implement the new knowledge I acquired. And all of that is wrapped up in a body that is truly exhausted. I've spent the last seven day getting about two hours of sleep per night less than I prefer. I've been living primarily on coffee, yogurt pilfered from the hotel breakfast bar, and a beer in the evening. Talking to strangers in a convention center filled with 16,000 people is outside my comfort zone.
I want my family. I want my house. I want to cook my own food. I want my cat.
Air travel is certainly faster than the alternatives, but I have a developing hypothesis that it ages you as if you had walked the distance.
I'm at 19,000 feet and I am almost home.