I got my travel arrangements in the e-mailbox last night. I fly out of Berlin on January 4 at 11 AM and land in Heathrow (weather permitting) at noon. Then I hop on a shuttle to the Holiday Inn (like a gangster and such), where they have booked me a room and are paying for dinner and breakfast. This will be the last moment of leisure for a long time, so I plan on opening up everything in that mini-fridge and watching Dudley Moore movies.
This is not the exciting part of the message, though. To get my ticket, I have to show the airline a letter from my employer (which, henceforth, will go nameless due to a certain confidentiality agreement I just found in my contract). Anyway, the letter reads, "This passenger is a bona fide seaman. If your policy allows, please extend the 40 kilos seaman baggage allowance." I'll give you a moment to get the jokes out of your system.
Jolly good! Now, as nice as it is to have a company pushing the boundaries of airline baggage rules for me, it's the first sentence that really got to me. That's a pretty damn cool title to have. I mean, yeah, I'm not exactly climbing the mast in a tropical storm or loading powder into the guns, but as far as that checking clerk is concerned, I'm a bona fide seaman. It's in Latin; it doesn't get more official than that.
That's all I really wanted to say. Until tomorrow, friends.
And now, because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want, Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson:
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