FOURTH NIGHT

A CURIOUS THING happened to me about a week ago for taking to heart the adage When in Rome, do as the Romans do. I was traveling to Brussels as one of about a dozen reporters from various European countries to cover a one-day event called The European Day of Languages. The travel arrangements, which the European Commission had arranged for me, involved flying out of Larnaca, Cyprus, at four a.m. on a Sunday and returning at the same time on Tuesday. That part of the schedule was lousy enough, but tucked in between the two red-eye flights was a gem: an eleven-hour layover in Budapest.

People often complain about flight layovers. To them a three or four hour layover is a miserable inconvenience and a waste of time. Such people either have too much leisure time or they are insane and neurotic enough never to need any. One does not have any responsibilities during the layover except to get from, say, Gate 16 to Gate 23—the equivalent of walking down the block—in three or four hours. When one’s life is an overgrown jungle of things to do and unrequited ambitions, the layover is a much welcome oasis of nothingness. It is a stress- and guilt-free opportunity to be idle, which to anyone but a sloth or a freakish work addict is something to be welcomed and cherished.

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