It’s weird, but I’ve become somewhat fond of modern air travel. The delays. The hopelessness of the situation. The craziness of it all. Somehow, I find the whole of it relaxing. I like knowing that, once I get to the airport, everything is out of my control, and I get to stop making decisions. I get to stop doing. I get to stop being. I’m just a unit to be relocated for the next few hours. I have nowhere to go, nothing to do, until my plane takes off, and then I’m stuck in a tin can for x hours until I get there. I can read, I can people watch, but there’s nothing I have to do, because there’s nothing I can do. I can’t reduce the number of tasks on my lists. I can’t really do anything. And it’s nice. I feel at peace. I like the smell of Jet-A. I sometimes dislike other air travelers, especially if a) they have kids b) they get irate when things aren’t on time or c) if they don’t respect my space. And, to be sure, I complain about the absurd luck I seem to have with things. But strange as it sounds, I think I feel most at home when I’m lost in the commercial air transit system.