The flight was BA and as such pretty blissful. I sat at a window and saw the Alps and felt the turbulence, and got fairly poor food (since when does a two and a half hour flight only get you a sandwich?) but then we landed and all amiss again.
There are a multiple of bad things about arriving at a country via an airport, but my current favourite is reserved for those countries inside the EU. Formerly, arriving into an EU country was beautiful, you turned up, waved your passport and walked through while all the other poor nationalities outside of Europe (and the Norwegians) had to queue forever. However, due to the complicated labour / visit / ratio / number confusion that concerns certain newer Eastern European countries inevitably the previously under-worked EU passport control officer now finally has something to do and do with, at least a this terminal, a certain perverse joy.
It wasn't till the train station did Italy start to feel like a genuine foreign country, when a double-decker train pulled into the platform covered in graffiti and, in my head at least, throwing out copious amounts of steam upwards into the 19th century station roof. And when hundreds of Italians spewed out of the train grabbing their bags and speaking so fast that I couldn't stand to hear the sentences, let alone the words, I was very happy.
And then my train turned up and it was new and sleek and made of sharp plastic bits and looked nothing like another country and I was sad again. But only till I found out that the door handle to get into my carriage was broken and someone asked me if they could sit next to me in a foreign language.
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