[ WP ] You land at a London Airport only to shortly realise that you are not in London but in a country you have never heard of its existence before .

Descending swiftly through the arching banks of clouds, Isabelle observed the small crystals that had formed between the two panes of glass, protecting her from the outside elements, turn into vapour. Now the crystals had vaporised, a sharp spattering started against the panes, streaks of water making horizontal patterns on the window started Isabelle out of a plane induced dullness into alertness. The outside light was dim, indigo like, the cloud thickened into a soup like morass, rolls spilled onto expanding rolls, blanketing the plane in a comforting like way that was reminiscent of a typical English day. The plane moved down, but Isabelle ’ s stomach seemed to move upwards, towards the sky, as the gravity of Isabelle ’ s body worked against it ’ s natural instincts. 
 
 Twelve hours had been the length of the journey. The movement of journeying, the fastness and excitement of moving between two unrelated points, an unknown body, of which no one but the individual could pinpoint in location, appealed to Isabelle ’ s sense of romanticism. The purified, recycled air stretched her skin which became increasingly taught on journeys to the bathroom. The strip white neon lighting straddled the length of the plane, only minimally controllable above her economy seat, made her eyelids itch and wince, and seemed to diffuse through her eyelids whenever she tried sleep. Plastic packaged economy food, delivered with practiced politeness by perfectly cuffed hands, left a curious artificial taste around her mouth and appeared to move straight through her cramped body. In turn, her middle seat resulted on an encroachment of her personal space by her surrounding dozing passengers, their average sized limbs too large for them to kept to themselves in an economy sized seat. The nearing end of the journey had induced a haze like tiredness over all plane passengers, even the stewardesses seemed to move in a more automatic like state as they briefed the passengers for landing cards. Everything seemed recycled, artificial and garish. Every movement seemed constricted, uncomfortable and limited by the norms of this intermediate like space. It felt itchy and uncomfortable. It seemed asexual, or aromantic, but Isabelle throughout appreciated the familiar atmosphere of journeying, the uncomfortableness of the intrepid explorer, whose fable like tales made up for the banalities of travel. No one close to her could currently know her accurate location, she was at one with the wider world as she made her descent back into a normal life of connections. 
 
 People around her roused themselves and glanced with interest as the plane moved towards the ground with increasing speed. Lowered murmurs were spoken to each other. Arches of cloud parted. Isabelle peered across her neighbour as best she could, attempting to satisfy her curiosity as well as British standards of politeness. The man was also typically curious and stared outside. The darkish blue hues obstructed a clear view of her homeland. She glanced sideways often, casually expecting to see a first glance of packed tarmac parking lots, interspersed with dark foliage and autumnally ploughed fields, after a brief tack over central London. What she began to see what strange. A city scape surrounded by English countryside was replaced by ornate structures, that extensively moved into the distance. Vibrant orange sandbanks, dulled by the approaching dusk, propped up the buildings, and moved away into the the skyline. Motorways were replaced by small dirt paths, unclearly marked and spotted with small, undefined figures and animals. Small rivers ran parallel to the roads, with small sprouts of plants and foliage occurring at odd occasions, adding vibrance to an otherwise barren and desert like landscape. 
 
 Isabelle dully observed what confused her eyes and mind. She presumed her constant interaction with bleak modernist and artificial landscapes was producing in her a dream like state, of fantasy counteraction. Without so much of a brief movement of the head, she directed a subtle glance to her passenger to the right, abutting the window. A plaid white shirt lay under a waxed waistcoat, a scarf hung lackadaisically around his neck, reading spectacles lay on his nose and his white hair was receding round his scalp. Isabelle glanced once back at the landscape and then subtly back at the gentleman. He caught her glance, a gentle smile crossed his face. 
 “ Home! ”, he said in interaction, he glanced back out the window, just after the wheels hit the sand.
