Because Aeroflot doesn't fly to San Francisco, the show booked me on British Airways. In order to make it work, I have to take a 5:40am flight to London leaving out of Domodedovo Airport, the newest of the Moscow triumvarate of international air emporiums.
Never actually went to bed. My driver picked me up from the apartment at 2am. Before that, Marius, Brandy, Lara and I went to go have Georgian food. I came back home, finished packing and headed out.
Truth be told, traveling at 4am is kind of a pleasure. There's no one at the airport. No lines anywhere. Not at security. Not at the counter. Not nowhere. Those of us on the flight mostly slumped in our seats, heads bobbing, and waited to board.
In order to get to your gate you have to pass through the Duty Free gauntlet.
I'm going to confess something about the Duty Free. What the hell is that anyway? The Duty Free. Is it some sort of no tax shop? And if so, so what what? You go in for a Toblerone the size of a speed bumb and you save 63 cents? Is that it?
The Duty Free always struck me as sort of like one of those boats that would stroke up and down the Seine during Vichy France. And you'd go down to the bank and pick up some black market chocolates or tomatoes. Clearly, I don't understand the Duty Free.
Alright. Almost time to board.
You can see my flight there third from the bottom.
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