I had just polished off a delicious cheese plate, followed by an exquisite duck ravioli, all paired with a nice dry sauvignon blanc, and finally, some velvety sinfulness containing the words "double chocolate," when Marcello asked, "how about a little cognac now to help you get some sleep?"
"Perfect," I answered. Realizing that I was in exceptionally good hands, I hit the recline button and resolved to just go with whatever Marcello suggested during the next 12 hours. The man clearly knew what he was doing.
Alas, it turns out that even with an utterly miraculous free upgrade from economy to first class for the long flight home from down under – complete with horizontal bed, wherein if I really really stretched, I could just barely brush the seat in front of me with my toes – jet lag still is what it is.
One hell of a way to fly though, and almost enough to make me sell my soul to go chase massive wealth (i.e just so I never have to fly coach again). Almost.
So I'm back, and with the Valley searing in the mid 90s, I immediately fire up the spaceship – a different sort of upgrade altogether – make a quick pit stop to load up on groceries, and cruise out to the beach for a few cool, quiet days of circadian recalibration. No, it's not nearly the best beachfront property I've ever had, but for LA, it'll do.