I handed over my passport. “First time?” asked the smiling woman. I wondered if she could hold onto that smile after checking in hundreds of passengers.

“Uh, to Hawaii, yes, but I’ve been to the States before.”

“Hawaii is just beautiful,” she replied. “You’ll love it.” She was far chattier than any airline agent I’d met before. Maybe she was a traveller at heart, like me. Her nametag said, “Candyce”.

“I’m meeting my lover there,” my mouth said without my permission. I don’t even like that word and I never use it. Yet, there I was telling a perfect stranger that I was heading to Hawaii for a shag.

I wanted to suck the words back into my mouth, but before I could go into damage control, she replied, “Good for you,” and added a conspiratorial smile. I beamed. She printed a luggage tag and put it on my suitcase with a practised ease I’ve never mastered at self-check-in. Then her machine spat out my boarding pass and luggage receipt. She tucked them into my passport and handed them across the counter.

“It’s not a full flight, so I’ve blacked out the seat next to yours. You’ll have some extra room to rest up.” She smiled again and raised her eyebrows. I beamed even more.

“Thank you!”

“Have a great flight,” she called after me.

“I will!” It was possibly the best check-in ever. I gave myself a mental high-five, forgetting instantly that I’d just spilled to a stranger about my sex life.

Once I was through security and immigration, the knot in my stomach started to ease and excitement took its place. I changed some money, so I’d have US cash, then stopped at duty free to pick up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. When Josh and I were in Greece, we’d discovered it was a shared favourite, and I liked the idea of having “our drink” at the ready for sundowners on the balcony.

I filled the rest of the time before my flight the same way I usually do, browsing the latest book releases, stocking up on water, gum, snacks, and trashy magazines for the flight, and settling any lingering nerves by drinking a glass of wine at the bar closest to my gate.

Okay, it was two.

Boarding a long-haul flight just a little tipsy is my preferred way to travel—don’t judge me. I know the prevailing wisdom is to avoid alcohol and stay hydrated, but I’d bet a billion dollars that the people who write those travel tips fly business class. And that they’ve never had a peevish seat battle with the person in front who decides to fully recline in the middle of dinner. Those people, the mid-meal recliners, belong in hell with the bad toast-makers.

Luckily, my flight turned out to be quite nice—for a ten-hour flight, that is. No seat war, dinner was served right after we took off, and Candyce blocking out the seat next to me paid off big time! Both seats next to me were empty and I got to lie down and sleep, which I did for six hours. Six! That’s the economy flier’s equivalent of a unicorn sighting.