The flight to Lisbon always takes a touch longer than it should. It starts, like all, in the cursed transportation security administration line. Snaking, weaving, winding. Not moving. But the worst part? Women in sweat pants shoving sweaty Crocs into plastic tubs. X-ray bound. And men in zip-off pants. Travel used to be sex. It used to be an upper class amusement. Now it is a chance to lounge in an aluminum, lower class rumpus room. But I try to not think about the under-perfumed masses. I think about myself. I always dress to kill. A white Helmut Lang button up. A pair of tight but not skinny Globe Dylan jeans in smoke. My grandfatherâ€™s Omega wristwatch. I fly business class when I can. I fly emergency exit row when I canâ€™t. The stewardesses always look, once, twice, and give me a little extra. Three small bottles of Grey Goose. A neck massage. I watch film, read or sleep. Enjoying the soothing purr of recycled air. Not thinking about the chubby thing in Old Navy comfort stretch across the aisle.
And when I land at the Aeroporto da Portela de Sacavem I feel like a slightly hung over million dollars. Shirt slightly wrinkled. I call my ride. A glorious investment banker of Portuguese Angolan decent who smells of spice. My pants match the gunmetal grey of her BMW. We drive off toward the Ritz, sun setting behind puffs of cloud. Pink and canary. I know most of the drinks will be on the house.
They can say whatever. Iâ€™m gonna do whatever. Nothing is forever. Yup, you know dis. Tougher than lion. Ainâ€™t no need it trying. I live where the sky ends. Yup, you know dis.