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My own theory is that jet lag begins not in midair but the moment one sets foot in the airport. Checking in, passing through security, drifting toward the departure gate - all stages in a glorious slippage of identity. As you hover along the concourse, eyes a-flicker, your tastes and habits fall away. You are between states, between countries: Unwonted pleasures recommend themselves. You buy an expensive magazine about cars, despite having no interest in cars. At 9:30 in the morning you find yourself eating a plate of General Gao’s chicken. Who are you? Without the name printed on your boarding pass you’d have no idea.

James Parker, “Jet Lag” (via Boston Globe)

So much truth.

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