I wake up nervously early on Sunday morning to catch my flight to Cologne. The day is cloudy, with a pinch of light rain. There are a few people on the train to Stansted Airport, but they seem sparser and more distant than before the pandemic. That impression gets stronger at the airport itself. The huge display shows a ridiculous scarcity of flights, and all stores and cafes are closed, except for a life-saving Boots. I feel as if I didn’t know what to expect from the imminent experience of flying, like a virgin of sorts. I’m tremendously aware that I will be seeing the kids today after an immeasurably long absence, yet that conclusion seems somehow disconnected from all the steps before it, as if merely foreseen by a mysterious oracle. The picture of the encounter runs intermittently in my mind.