Only flying is more beautiful.

In earnest?

Gliding maybe.

Or balloon flying.

I know, I know, that doesn't mean ballooning, that means ballooning, for whatever reason.

Flying is nicer?

This cannot mean what we usually understand by flying: this type of locomotion for which you have to be in a check-in hall three hours before departure in order to actually be checked-in in this hall thanks to a stroke of luck, i.e. on a strike-free day .

What follows is a hike several kilometers long, meticulously planned by sales strategists, through various galleries full of usury shops (mini bottle of water five euros).

At some point you reach the departure gate and finally even the aircraft, where you are forced into a dwarf seat and maltreated with industrially manufactured cheap food.

After all, you have the choice: pasta or chicken?

get there somehow

One should always take pasta, if only out of solidarity with the chickens, whose poor storage and nutrition can be felt in such a plane, better than in any Kentucky Fried Chicken branch.

Nothing is worse than flying!

But what am I getting excited about?

They rightly say that you don't have to eat chickens that are hostile to life, nor do you have to fly.

Which in the second case does not apply to everyone.

If, for example, a hobby triathlete qualifies for the Ironman Hawaii and thus fulfills a lifelong dream, he understandably has to get to Hawaii somehow.

Swimming falls flat as an option despite all fitness levels, the same goes for the train, and if no patron then reports who sails a Friday-for-Future-style with his sailing yacht to the Big Island in an environmentally friendly way, including sustainable fishing on the way, the only thing left is: plane and pasta.

And cabin attitude.

Sometimes that's funny.

Or at least interesting.

For example, last week, on a flight to Hawaii, I had the opportunity to view an amazing number of highly trained Ironman qualifiers in our fellowship.

Women and men who have been counting calories for months, for years, eating wholesome and consciously and now - with a minimum of body fat sitting there in their dwarf seats in a supercooled plane, drinking tea and eating pasta, some with hoods over their heads, just not even catch a cold ten days before the start.

Flying is beautiful?

The ironmen and ironwomen wouldn't sign it.

Triathlon is nicer: 3.8 km swim, 180 km bike, 42 km run.