I’m not sure what day it is today. Sunday? I guess that depends on what time zone you are in. I’ve stepped foot on 3 continents over the last 24 hours and crossed 13 time zones. It sounds impressive at face value but I never want to do that again. The closest I’ve ever come to that was when I flew from Auckland to New York 8 years ago, which covered 8 time zones. At least in that case, I was traveling into the past. So I left at 9:30pm on a Saturday and arrived at 9:35pm on a Saturday.
I feel so disoriented. Only yesterday, I was eating a bowl of chili and fries in Miami airport. And about 12 hours ago, I was munching on a tuna baguette in Paris. And now I’m about to eat lunch in Kuala Lumpur. Wait a minute. In the last 24 hours I seem to have had 7 meals. This time zone thing really messes with your head.
Now, if I had being paying any attention to my flight details, I would have tried to do a stopover in Paris for a couple of days. Not only would it have broken up the trip but it would have been lovely to catch up with friends in Europe. Oh hindsight, you are such a cruel mistress.
It’s weird stepping back into the real world after months on a ship. There are all these quirks to get used to. Technology seems magical. Chores feel awkward. Getting anywhere takes annoyingly long. And the most foreign concept of all: Using the Roman calendar again.
When you work every day for months on end, the weekend does not exist as a concept and names of days are completely irrelevant. No one cares if it’s Friday or Monday, they care what port it’s going to be. Tomorrow becomes St Marten or Dominica or St Kitts or whatever else, and a cruise feels like a new week, regardless of whether it’s 7 or 10 days.
Suddenly, the real world feels exotic.