Three flights on one journey will create misunderstandings.
I travel from Umea, in Northern Sweden, to Dublin.
My first flight is delayed landing at Stockholm. There is a long internal walk from arrival. My 100 minutes between flights begin to wither.

Eating french fries at a café I discover I have two minutes to check in, a kilometre away, through crowds.
Chips loosed in my pocket, I eat fistfuls. I gallop.
Through security. No time to re-trouser my belt.
I run with the wide leather belt swinging in one hand.
People step aside. I eat fries on the hoof.

The nearest gate is 21. Final check in time is past.
I am hailed on the public address. "Would Brendan Nolan please contact gate 33"

I want to shout I am trying to do that; but I am finishing my fast food.
Gate 33. All boarded.
An older stewardess calls my name at me?
Yes, it is I. Fame.
I sit, strap, breathe, fly. Nobody cheers, alas.
In Copenhagen, I transfer to my third plane for a two-hour flight. Onboard, I doze. I walk to the toilet. 
I wash my wrists in the tiny restroom. I splash my eyes and face with water.
I press a button on the towel dispenser.
 
Fists bang on the door.
Stewardess; "Are you alright? You pressed the alarm."
I invite her in to explain.
I hold her wrist to steady this slim Scandinavian who flies through the air every day, unaided by me.
She smiles into my eyes and says I was just seeking her company in that room.
I feel dizzy: perhaps I ate the chips too quickly.

We walk the aisle teasing one another, my face still damp.
Strapped men look at me with murder in their eyes.
I may never go home.
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