I hate airports.
I love flying, though. I mean, I stare out the window and marvel and think of all the dreamers in history who wanted to soar like a bird and see the earth from above, and here I am doing it with a pack of peanuts and a plastic cup of room temperature water. It’s a miracle. And we groan about it.
That’s because airports suck. Security sucks. The queues suck. Customs and Immigrations . . . I LOVE you guys! Love you so much. You’re the best. Just passing through!
Ahem. So here I am in London, with a 6 hour layover in Heathrow after a 12-hour flight from South Africa, and what do I do? I go through Customs and Immigration, and put myself back outside of that sacred shoe-wearing, bottled-water-having halo of airport security, knowing I’ll have to pass through again. All to sign a single reader’s book.
When I get to Florida in 17 hours, I’m facing an even more monumental task: Sorting, signing, packing, and shipping over 1,200 items to over 800 individual addresses.
And you know what? I don’t hesitate to say “yes.” Because in aggregate, all your little decisions to buy my stories has had a bigger impact on me than I’ll ever have on another human being. And it isn’t even close.
You all sent me around the world for three years, signing books on six continents, two dozen countries, and hundreds of cities. You let me stay at home and write with my dog, so she could get three or four or twelve walks around the neighborhood. You made my mother almost forget about the fact that I still haven’t finished college. And you made sure that the boat I sail around the world on (’cause it was happening no matter what) is less liable to get me killed.
I love you all.
Especially you, Customs! And you, Immigrations!
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