The flights were long, very long. Indeed, they were nine hours and five hours long from Brussels to Atlanta respectively but this is not the kind of long I mean. What I mean is that they made day and night into a homogenous state of cabin-time; and the initial thrust of excitement being followed by the long and tedious drag was broken only occasionally by miniature cuboid refreshments distributed (gratis) by a couple of achingly smiley flight attendants.

Nevertheless, thanks to my generous girlfriend (who gave up her window seat so that I could have a comfortable view of my first airborne visit to the new world), the Atlantic crossing remained interesting so long as we flew over land and there were no clouds below us; which proved to be about 70% of the time.

Runway to runway the discovery of the Boston-brewed Samuel Adams beer (somewhere south of Greenland) was a boon and—along with the higher-than-expected array of films/movies and the interesting array of snacks available on the transatlantic crossing—managed to keep boredom away on the first journey. This selection plummeted somewhat on the GE-NV state-to-state flight that followed, but by this time I had entered the comatose state of apathy referred to above and so had little impact on my demeanour.

On arrival to Las Vegas tiredness had shifted from the normal temporary effect into full-blown state-of-being. It stopped tugging my eyelids for entertainment and instead chose to transform my brain into yoghurt and my mind into a thick, unaware fuzz. The

 blur of organisation and checking-in went quickly/slowly by and after a $2.50 MacDonald’s supper we all gratefully retired to our respective beds and sleeping mats.

The next day began with the long-awaited Las Vegas buffet breakfast. This I had been keenly anticipating for some time due to the hype granted it by the Maassen clan, my own gluttony, as well as a reasonably genuine interest in North American post-industrial cuisine. Suffice to say it didn’t disappoint—unfortunately, the pathetic brown liquid being advertised as “coffee” (roughly the consistency and colour of mop-bucket water reminiscent of my short-lived career as a kitchen porter) and the grey-sweet foam “cappuccino” (think depressed Eastern European shipping port floating chemical sea scum) did. For moment I was genuinely worried my breakfast would be caffeine-free and, therefore, no breakfast at all. 

However, the land of opportunity proved itself well-named as, next to the not-coffee/not-cappuccino machine sat an eight-nozzle soda stream complete with Pepsi, Diet Pepsi and Mountain Dew dispensers. All these drinks I already knew (as a result of consuming these imported products back in the Old World) contained traces of caffeine, and therefore could suffice as a stand-in for my normal breakfast beverage. Drink a couple of litres or more of these three sodas and you have yourself at least an espresso-worth of awakening goodness.

The selection of exotic foods and dishes available was extensive and pleasingly unfamiliar. For about an hour and a half I sat and