I had just begun to snooze, my barrel chest up, after watching On Chesil Beach and Tully. There came a thud, and the wheels of the airplane grazed the hard runway. I felt it. It reminded me of the coarse ice of Antarctica. En route Newark to Dubai, we made a halt at Athens. Everything was Greek and Latin, quite literally. I was carried into a lounge, where toilets were toualetas and airport was aerodromio. I saw rows and rows of honey bottles, chocolates and potato chips, all wrapped in Greek writing. My vocabulary was restricted to Yanni. So I gave up, rested by tuxedoed self on a chair and polished my bill before the next flight to Dubai.