It seems like planes shouldn’t be able to fly.
I’m not an engineer or plane designer, or whatever college major builds planes, but as a passenger I cross my fingers because it really looks a bit impossible.
They are too big, too bulky, they rattle around at crazy speeds and then…glide as if they weighed nothing more than the air carrying them. It’s really quite something. I am sure there are volumes of logical explanations for how it works, but every time I’m on a plane it feels like there is some magic involved.
I hate take off. If something is going to go wrong, if someone forgot to tighten a bolt or inflate a tire, it seems like it will hit the fan during takeoff. My jaw tightens and my hands get sweaty and I read the same paragraph of whatever I’m reading over and over again until we start gliding.
Once we hit feather status I’m fine, happy actually. I like flying, even the food and the cramped little tables. I like walking to the bathroom and seeing all the people sleeping. The peace and quite of a night flight. It is an incredible thing to be able to get from one country to another with such relative ease.
No one can get me when I’m on a plane, nothing has to be done, the dryer bell doesn’t ding and I’m usually on my way to some place fun or fantastic.
It is a privilege, travel. I’m so grateful every time.
We leave for Paris tomorrow, all five of us. Our children are older, but I’m sure there will still be a bit of The Griswolds sprinkled in there throughout the seven days. For now, I’m looking forward to the plane ride. Dim overhead light, cashmere blanket, peanut M&Ms and Steven King.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Recline.