A long-haul flight is an extraordinary privilege. It means you’re travelling further afield than Port Macquarie. And while there is absolutely nothing wrong with Port Macquarie, if I had a choice between that being the reason I was paying $12 for an airport coffee, or the fact that I was heading to an incredible city like New York City (or, in my most recent case, Manchester, in the rainy north of England) or a tropical paradise like Mauritius (I repeat, or “gritty” Manchester), I would probably choose the latter.
A long-haul flight, for the unencumbered, means binge-watching movies, sipping on G&T and the pure pleasure of being unreachable for as long as you are usually asleep.