I don't like to travel -- I like to arrive. The travel part is just the necessary evil I have to endure in order to arrive. There are few things that are less pleasurable than travelling by airplane. In the past few weeks it feels like I have done nothing but sit on airplanes. I must have inhaled several plane-fulls of old farts, bad breath and the distinctive aroma of feet when the fat bloke in the seat behind you determines that it is time to air out his toes. Well, at least he wasn't sitting beside me, spilling over into my seat -- someone else had the pleasure of being perspired upon by him.
Arriving is a different matter. You check into the hotel, you get rid of your bags, you change into something that doesn't smell like airplane, splash some water on your face and go get some real food.
The past weeks I've driven quad bikes in the desert, enjoyed a quiet beach, I've seen Formula One cars up close and personal, fooled around on snowboard somewhere in Austria. For symmetry it would have been nice to do some quad-biking in the mountains as well, but alas, it didn't happen.
This weekend I am doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.