Travel days are always a write-off, aren’t they? The first day disappears somewhere between time zones, terminals, and terrible coffee.

The alarm went off at 3am (though, true to form, I was wide awake at 2:45). Mumbled goodbyes to Harry, who insisted I wake him for a hug. By 3:50 I was at the local airport shuttle stop — a random stretch of curb that didn’t look the least bit official. I kept asking Josh if it was even a real stop, and only relaxed when another bleary-eyed traveller turned up.

The shuttle was full of sleeping passengers, huddled under hoodies in the dark. At the airport, we entered that familiar pre-purgatory — if the terminal is limbo, then the flight itself is purgatory proper.

A small thrill: Brunetti’s had my old favourite, the caprese sandwich, long gone from the city café. We also spent some time in what I’ve dubbed the poor man’s lounge — the American Express Lounge — before heading to the gate.

Here’s the funny part: they went through the usual boarding calls over the loudspeaker — First Class, Business, families, special assistance — then finally a cabin crew member yelled out and asked if anyone was actually on the flight. Hardly anyone moved. There were so few passengers that everyone ended up with a whole row to themselves. I’ve never seen anything like it. Perfect! A chance to stretch out and sleep.

Well, theoretically. I still had to sit next to Josh and crush his hand during takeoff (rituals are rituals). The crew-to-passenger ratio was almost 1:2 — 18 crew, 18 languages. Disappointing that they didn’t bump us all up to business or at least let us explore the bar up that mysterious spiral staircase. Still, they did take a lovely Polaroid of us, so that’s something.

Sleep, however, refused to cooperate. Even flat out, in a dark cabin dotted with fake stars, I could only manage the occasional doze.

The consolation prize: stunning views over the Maldives as we passed above.

It was, all things considered, a great flight — smooth, quiet, good food, endless movies. But after 13 hours in the air, we faced a 6-hour layover in Dubai (which became 7.5 after delays 😩). So we grabbed our metro cards and went exploring.

The Burj Khalifa — the world’s tallest building — was dazzling, and the Dubai Mall was every bit as over-the-top as promised. But the train ride back? My first ever experience of being so tightly packed I physically couldn’t move. And I did not enjoy it.

Dubai is fascinating — full of energy, excess, and endless things to do — but I don’t think it’s my kind of place. Everything seems so flashy, so adventurous, so… much.

I’m writing this while waiting for our flight to Cairo and regretting booking a busy schedule with an early start, for Day 1 but I guess we have to push through because we only get this one chance. By the way, we’ve officially been awake for over 24 hours now. Feeling like zombies.

And so ends the in-between place: that strange, liminal day between home and elsewhere. Exhausting, oddly memorable, and gone in a blur.

Tomorrow we will be in the Good Place!