As the year progresses, a few changes have been welcomed in my life.

The days are now as full as the pints of Guinness I pour at the Storehouse, a focus tourist attraction in the Irish capital. The building, contained in six floors belonging to the famous brewery at St. James’ Gate in Dublin, is a museum in which tourists can learn about ingredients and preparation processes, as well as have a little taste of the dark stout brew, whilst at the top of it all, the best view of the city can be enjoyed from the Gravity Bar.
Repetitive and busy, I am unable to count how many times I have explained how to pour the perfect pint -in three different languages-, or the amount of pints my hands have served so far.

Resting my head against the brown sofa at my new apartment in South Dublin, the sunshine penetrates through the glassed bell-shaped frame and naturally heats up the room. An article on the local newspaper has inspired me to write a piece, which I have called ‘The Flying Pencil’.

    “Open your seat belts, come this way, jump and slide”. A constant ring in my mind whilst I nervously climb up the metal stairs and look at the big engines timidly whirring in preparation for a journey into the air.

It is forty-six degrees Celsius outside and some drops of sweat slide through my forehead, wiped aggressively fast with my white sleeve. Passengers have arrived at the door and one must look fresh.
They all look tired and flushed,  especially after knowing that their plane has been delayed due to severe heat. 
I put on my best smile, whilst I try to forget about the long flight from Australia the night before, body claims of rest ignored at the new time zone.

Boarding commences.

“Oh sorry Sir, I think that bag must be bigger than what it is allowed” triggers grins and sighs of frustration. Perhaps not at me, but at the aircraft designers. 

As I close my door and I say Good-bye to the Middle Eastern summer, things change inside this metal tube: 
A middle-aged woman grabs me by the arm and ask me if I could tell the pilot to fly lower so she would not feel scared of the altitude. An Egyptian man with a very thick accent asks me for Panadol, a businessman from Mumbai asks me for a glass of water, and three Japanese girls smile and take pictures of everything surrounding them.

Engines thrust at full power leaving a big cloud of brown dust on the runway, the desert lights fading in the distant dark whilst we reach our cruising altitude amidst a festival of call-bells awaiting to be answered.

A curry smell invades the cabin. Meals are ready, the glamour of Economy class obfuscated by the heavy cart whilst I distribute meal trays with one hand , prepare drinks with the other, and clean the floor with my leg.
A Nepalese passenger stares at me while I hand him his tray. His tired eyes swerve and focus on the bottles of whisky decorating the top of my trolley. His voice is shy, his personality crushed by years of working as a labourer in the Middle East, his body stripped away from the dignity of a homemade meal or a bit of booze. I fill his glass and mentally cheer, for he is now returning home.

The captain has announced our ‘Final Descent’ and I walk around the cabin with a sense of yet another job well done, of yet another duty completed for our life is made of small moments that are part of the one big picture, of this episode of my life which is flying.

Our aircraft glides towards the runway, the engines at minimum power only at the mercy of the air running under the deployed flaps. The ground grows closer and the houses grow bigger, my eyes snap and I see my hand-guided pencil landing into my wooden desk. 
My laptop shines with the background picture of my sons, my “Best Dad Ever” mug is now full of cold and tasteless coffee and a pile of colour-coded documents need a review. 

A taste of a life once had and never forgotten. A dream perhaps, since I have never been on a plane and I despise traveling’.

Speak soon. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!