”All human life can be found in an airport.”
The day feels like fall with a temperature of 68°. It is mostly cloudy. The leaves are barely moving on the oak trees. The dogs are having their morning naps. All is right with my world.
I am hoping to reenter the world today. My leg still hurts, and I still limp enough for sympathy, but, regardless, I need to get out of the house. I need to see people.
When I was a kid, I used to make adventure books. Once, when we were visiting my grandparents in East Boston, my uncle, only two years older than I, took my brother and me to Logan Airport. Because it was a far away walk, we didn’t tell my mother. We just went. Back then Logan was mostly one story buildings. The viewing spots were on the roofs. We watched the planes coming and going. They were props. We wandered inside the terminal. It was, at least I think I remember it was, one long building with a counter for each airline. Pamphlets were on metal spinning racks all around the terminal. I collected as many as I could carry. Some were for airlines, others for hotels and many for tourist spots in Boston. When we got back to my grandparents’ house, my mother was not at all happy. I really didn’t figure she would be.
Later in the week, I made my travel journal. I took all the pamphlets and cut out the pictures I wanted for my trip. I glued the pictures into my scrap book. On my journey, I took airplanes, stayed in hotels and visited historic spots. I wrote my own travel log. It wasn’t very sophisticated. I was young, but I was proud of that journal. It was, in its way, a prediction. I always knew I would travel the world. This first trip was pretend, but later in my life all the travels were real.
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September 9, 2025 at 2:47 pm
One of my most memorable business trips took place in the 1990s, flying with my company chairman in a small, four-seater aircraft. We traveled roughly 300 miles along the length of England to Biggin Hill. The outward journey was effortless; with perfect visibility, our pilots navigated by sight, tracing the route of the A1 highway below. The return trip, however, was fraught with tension. Thick cloud and mist obscured the ground, forcing the pilots to rely on a single handheld GPS for navigation. I recall the palpable sense of relief when the runway of our home airport finally emerged from the gloom, bringing our adventure to a safe conclusion.
September 9, 2025 at 8:26 pm
Peter,
Given how small the plane was, on that return trip, I would have been frantic. That was a flight never to be forgotten. Even on big planes, I am not a fan of turbulence.
My uncle also had a four seater. He once flew me from outside Boston back to the cape. It was spectacular. We flew along the coast. It seemed as if I could almost touch the water.