Thoughts on middle ages, movies, music and more
Waking up in Wellington, I was surprised that the dreaded jetlag seemed to have no effect on me. I was just a groggy as I usually am after waking up slightly too early. Fortunately, there was no time for my usual slow start, as there were buses to be caught and breakfasts to be had: we were on our way to Ohakune, one of the possible HQs for the dreaded Tongariro Crossing!
Flying, if you ask me, is a weird – if not unsettling – experience. Especially when traveling long distances, I always get the feeling that my mind and/or body are telling me that I’m moving too fast for my own good, that being stuffed into a big metal tube and whisked across the planet is not the way man is supposed to travel. Usually, when I fly, the effect is too small to properly appreciate (Berlin to Amsterdam is, for example, a relatively short distance), but when I had the pleasure of journeying halfway across the globe to New Zealand, what I think iamounts to the longest possible distance on a commercial flight, this effect hit me once again, like an old friend playfully punching you in the gut (albeit slightly too hard).