LAX

urgh. As some people would have expected, my powers of insomnia cannot be manipulated or bent to my very will. And hence, this is why I'm shattered at a quarter to 4 in the afternoon, gazing glassy eyed out on the hot LA tarmac, watching the air shimmer in agreement with the beastly flying machines. Waking at 5, I made my way successfull to the airport, where I went through all the traditional motions associated with air travel, involving the US. I had just finished The Northern Lights (The Golden Compass), the first book in Philip Pullman's "The Dark Materials" trilogy, and felt the need to buy the last two. I am now carrying far too many books with me for any sensible traveller, I must begin trading, though I hate parting with my novels, especially as everything I find in Hostels is mediocre in comparison.

Anyway, after boarding the tiny Alaska Airlines' 737, I barely noticed the entire journey, so engrossed I was in The Subtle Knife, that I didn't realise we were landing until our wheels caressed the tarmac. Though, with apparently unconscious effort, I took some truely stunning photos of the sun drenched clouds at 15,000 feet. I also admired how tiny the Hollywood sign appeared to be.

In an apparent random sequence of events, I found myself outside without showing my passport to anyone. I'm under the illusions my baggage will be transferred automatically, which I hope is true. Weather: Perfect sunny day, no clouds, not quite the climate for a t-shirt, micro-fleece and emo hoodie.

To cut a tedious story short, I've spent the last 5 hours wandering around the international terminal and have only just now resorted to a coffee and my zen. I've had Chinese for breakfast, used the expensive internet kiosk for an hour, been harassed by a monk, played with some art contraption, read Wired magazine and attempted to find some dice for purchase.

Am currently watching the planes take off. Earlier Rex and I discussed small vs large planes, with Rex preferring smaller ones as they seem less likely to plummet to some crazy Bermuda triangle style disastrous conclusion. Tom, on the other hand, prefers the brute force, hardcore style of a 747, which is basically a lesson in daring physics to try anything. which it rarely does. Saying that, smaller planes seem more fun.

I wish there was some form of noticeboard or bluetooth social network to find people in the same crazy infinite waiting situation I'm in. I blame Sam from STA travel mainly, and my unquestioning trust. Maybe the small children running around me will be my friends, they're playing with some cool toy aeroplanes. though, I suspect they don't fully grasp what it represents, and a potato would be a preferable substitute.

Then I could have a toy.