Early Thursday morning Lydia and I left our apartment to head down to Seattle, where we caught a flight on Iceland Air which fly us across North America and then a large portion of the Atlantic Ocean. We are now beyond tired, and thus I'm not going to go into any great detail at this point. I'm currently operating on such low levels of sleep that I might actually be writing this in Klingon and not realize it.
Did I ever learn Klingon? Have I been speaking it all day? That might explain why nobody seems to make any sense in Iceland. Somewhere over the Atlantic a switch flipped in my brain and I'm now talking a made up science fiction language and because I've only had about two hours of sleep in the last 28 I just haven't noticed it.
I tried to sleep on the plane, and caught the previously mentioned two hours of sleep, but an angry Icelandic child in a cowboy hat kept me from sleeping any longer by continually kicking my chair as hard as he could. I almost turned around and yelled at him, "Today is a good day to die!" but I wasn't sure if Iceland Air has special Icelandic air marshals that would have taseredme at that point. So instead I just stared at the seat ahead of me and thought of murder.
Because of the time change it's 5:30 in the evening here, and 9:30 in the morning back home. We've been trying to resist going to bed, to combat jet lag and to shock our systems into the correct time zone, but it's a losing battle. I'm going to shower now, and if I don't fall asleep standing up in the stall, I'll probably manage to crawl onto the bed and pass out. Barely.
* Klingon for "Good night".