The room is a long cabin enhanced by opened airplane windows and lines of fluorescent and incandescent lighting. Dark red carpeting floods the floor of the cabin like a spill of burgundy wine. A minor cacophony of talking and shuffling passengers disrupt the ambience provided by the hushed music played out of the speaker. You march your way down rows of seats the same color - maybe darker than - the wine-spilt floor. The carpet, as you walk, is firm, comfortable, and supportive.
Above the ceiling, glossy stickers are placed that mark each seat. You find your code and sit down. The seat is medium-firm, made with a leather-like feel. Upon sitting down, a green aura surrounds a symbol of a seat belt - a sign that says to put on your seat belt. You fasten the seatbelt, somewhat tightly, yet comfortably. A rumble is felt everywhere on the chair. It is almost like a light earthquake. As you peer outside the window, the airport crawls farther away from you. It moved sluggishly at first, but quickly in a few seconds. The plane continues to speed up and plant you to your seat. Then, you only hear the plane - nothing else. There is no more feeling of paralysis or earthquakes. You peer out the window and see the earth getting smaller and smaller; it eventually gets so minuscule that the clouds consume it entirely.
The plane halts, or it feels like it stopped. The clouds stir, but you feel no movement inside the cabin. You glance around the room; many people snooze away their time; others converse. Eventually, the cabin goes into a tranquil state: no sound, no disturbances, just tranquility.
An hour later, stewards gather toward the galley and prepare the meals for the passengers. The aroma of the local country's fare fills the room: hot steamed rice, saucy stir-fried vegetables, salty miso soup, and the fragrances of fresh-cut fruit combine and slightly perfumes the air so the smell entices any appetite (unless you don't like Japanese). The steward is approaching your row of seats now. With white gloves covering her hands and a smile on her face, she kindly presents a small tray of nourishment, a steaming cup of green tea, and a hot moist towel.
The food presentation is lovely; each tray of food is like a landscape: hilly mounds of rice, ponds of vegetable stir-fry, bridges of steamed vegetables, and temples of fresh-cut fruit. You pick up a pair of chopsticks and nibble at the food in front of you. It was okay - perhaps sub-par tasting. Maybe looks are not everything.
A movie commences to play on the gigantic screen in the front of the cabin. You take a few sips of the green tea, which resets your taste buds. A steward hands you a pair of headphones, plugs it in for you, and helps you adjust it on your head. It was a musical filled with much wonderful, funny, and sad music. Warm food, hot tea, and music make you drowsy. You fall into a deep slumber at your seat.
"Sir, please wake up," a steward says. You rise and glance at your watch. You have been asleep for six hours. The steward hands you a package of tough shortbread cookies and green tea. In a few minutes, the airplane begins to land. The airplane's descent reproduces the feeling of takeoff. Out the window, the clouds regurgitate the surface back into attention. The many buildings of Osaka, Japan get larger and larger each time you glance out the window. Back on land, the airplane lands on the runway of the airport. It makes a noticeable thump that shakes a few people and excites some. The plane pushes you off your seat, but the seatbelt prevents the inertia from launching you forward. It stops and another dark tube connects onto the airplane. A voice on the speakers says we hope you enjoyed your flight. You grab your luggage and make your way out of the plane.
