Arrived in Amsterdam today for the last guidebook gig in a while–I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Or I could if I weren’t so exhausted. I am too old to still be flying economy, especially in a seat that doesn’t recline all the way because it’s mashed against a pointless section divider.

I’ll spare you the litany of other small travel indignities I suffered, but I will mention they involved having to depart from a different airport (JFK, not convenient LGA), on a different airline (without the comfy seats my “status” entitles me to), and with the world’s longest layover in Frankfurt, with a departure at the world’s farthest gate…oh, but wait, no, they changed to the gate to one on the complete other end of the terminal! So even though I had five hours to kill (and killed part of them in the McCafe, what will be McD’s totally failed attempt to compete with Starbucks, at least based on witnessed inefficiency at a single outlet–lady! Gimme that stupid whipped-cream can, so at least I can do whippets while you’re taking _so_damn_long_ with my coffee!), I still had to run for my flight.

Oops. Whined anyway. Done. I swear.

I was so shattered when I arrived in Amsterdam that I derived zero joy from being in Europe. Normally, my heart thrills to the tiny odd details–Dutch accents! Goofy public art! The dividers in the bathroom stalls go all the way down to the floor…and up to the ceiling! And what nice, utilitarian rolls of toilet paper!–but today I just sneered, groused, grumbled.

It’s so stupid and clean here, I thought, on my endless walk to the baggage claim. So organized, blah blah blah. Except for that clusterfuck at the McCafe. They think they’ve got it together, but they don’t. And why is everyone so damn tall?

Only now, after a nap, do I realize: My attitude, I think, comes from having spent an awful lot of time in Mexico recently.