I love flying places. There is nothing like getting into a plane for a couple of hours and getting out in a whole new city and climate and time zone.
I feel like an explorer watching the topography and vegetation change through the window. And I am fascinated by the way the clouds look from inside and above.
I even kind of like the people watching that is built into our new pattern of travel. How some people queue better than others, what kind of unpack-able souvenirs are now carry-ons, the diversity of accents and languages at the gate.
And the recombobulating that happens following the dreaded security gate. Oh, the dynamics that get revealed as families and individual travelers get through the machine…
The first time I remember flying alone was on a hopper flight from College Station up to DFW. I don’t know why, but I ended up seated next to the Captain (mom says also the owner of the small airline).
I had my Donald Duck comic book with me as I got strapped into a seat right in the cockpit. With all the dials in view and the stick in reach. Seriously!
Besides the fact that the stick moved automatically as the Captain steered us, my memories are mostly about how LOUD it was up there.
I mean, it was so loud that I couldn’t hear a thing for hours after we landed and I found Aunt Marie. It was like the temporary hearing disruption you get after mowing the lawn or using some other loud motor. Times 1000.
But every time I fly, I think about being in the co-pilot seat, trusted not to mess things up while I absolutely trusted the Captain to do likewise.
Finding that place of mutual trust works pretty well in a lot of life. We grow ups could do with practicing more of that, I think.