I wake up half-dazed on a shuttle plane with golden light creeping through the window by my seat. Daytime again! The cold and rainy labyrinthine paths through sausage-stand infested streets in Picadilly Circus are behind me. I still see them in my head and feel the cold in my bones while I gaze down at light glittering from the crystal waters around Lisbon's harbor. Such a contrast with lively, cold London nights! As far as I'm concerned, I am still in Luton until this plane lands. I am still on the double-decker laughing at a Kiwi sweet-talk five Icelandic girls, trying to convince them he's not Australian. In clearer words, this transition, from England to Portugal, feels so smooth I just don't quite grasp the reality of looking down at mainland Europe. But I am. How?
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