You know, I don’t think I’ll ever lose my sense of wonder at soaring amongst the clouds in a metal bird.
Even after all these years of travel, the novelty refuses to wear off. One minute I’m tethered to the ordinary weight of luggage carousels and gate announcements, and the next, I’m lifted clean off the earth into a quiet, sunlit expanse where ordinary rules seem suspended.
To gaze down at the miniature landscape unfolding beneath me — ribboned coastlines, patchwork fields, and winding roads reduced to delicate threads — puts every earthly worry into perspective. Cotton clouds drift past the small oval frame like slow-moving sculptures. And there, suspended at thirty thousand feet while sipping a cold gin and tonic, it’s pure magic, every single time.
It’s a rare pocket of time where I am entirely in between: nowhere to be for the next few hours, nothing to fix, just floating in a bright slipstream of light and sky.