From My Window Seat

I still love to travel, but I don’t enjoy going through airports these days. It’s a curmudgeon problem I suppose, or maybe I hate being squeezed into ever shrinking seats, and dealing with the constant delays that seem too common with airlines these days. A few minutes ago I went through the TSA security line. The TSA guy got a bit too handsy, but it is Valentine’s Day, and maybe he figured I looked lonely.

I consider driving more and more, but my eyes are not what they used to be. They’re not bad. They still work, but I don’t have the sharpness of vision, and the ability to measure distance like I used to, which makes me hit the brakes too often when I think a car is closer than it really is. My wife doesn’t care for this, and she always informs me that the car is actually a hundred yards ahead. I understand autonomous cars are on the way … just in time for my old age. Things seem to work out.

Of all airports I’ve traveled through, the Atlanta-Hartsfield-Latoya-Jackson Airport is the airport I’ve been to the most. I don’t really care for the Atlanta-Hartsfield-Latoya-Jackson Airport, but everything seems to route through this inflated maze of weariness. They say you have to transfer planes at the Atlanta-Hartsfield-Latoya-Jackson Airport on your way to Hell. I plan on going up when I die, so maybe I’ll never see this airport again after I take my last breath.

I do still enjoy small airports, like the ones we flew out of when I was young, and my dad loved to fly, and many of my friend’s parents were pilots. I’ve flown out of dirt airfields in Alaska, and from short runways in the islands. I’ve flown patterns that circled small mountains. Small airports are fun. Animals might run out on the runway while you’re taking off. The runway might flood. Like I said, fun stuff.

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