A little bit of magic

O’HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CHICAGO, IL

I look up from my book to see that we are flying through clear blue skies, layered between two clouds. For a moment, I feel the extraordinary magic of flying. The magic of course is largely lost, buried somewhere under the digital strip searches and excessive surcharges. But I remember flying as a kid, before cockpits had deadbolts and peepholes, before you had to undress in order to get on a plane. Back then there was some sort of simple wonder in flying above familiar buildings, the aqua blue swimming pools dotting the landscape, and the feeling of swimming through a marshmallow. I remember flying through a thunderstorm on one solo trip in high school. It was amazing and terrifying and wonderful.  Flying on a plane was an adventure, and until I was too cool to care about such things, I loved the part of the flight when the flight attendant would fetch us young’uns and we would march up the aisle to the cockpit to meet the pilots, and ogle the myriad of buttons and flashing lights, and get a set of wings (the plastic pin-on variety, of course).

I love the adventure of new places, and though I’m not always convinced I chose this life, it is the only one I can imagine living, where the possibility of somewhere new, whether Montana or Mongolia, is always looming on the horizon. And flying is part of that, being able to get on a plane, and a movie and a bag of peanuts later, wake up in a different climate in a different time zone. But somewhere in the last decade, the flying part has become less adventure and more headache. I seldom get through an airport without a spike in blood pressure, ever infuriated by the public undressing (I swear this is the only country in the world where you have to remove clothing to get on a plane), the accusatory questions about knitting needles and hard drives, the confiscation of peanut butter because when it’s on bread it’s okay but when it’s in a jar it’s a public safety issue. Long layovers, canceled flights, lost luggage, the disappearance of meals, the hundred dollar bag fees- it’s all such a disappointment.

But then every now and then, with my long legs wedged into the tiny leather seat of an Embraer jet, my shoes and belt and sweater back on, my potentially fatal liquids packed in their tiny bottles, I peer out the window to find just a glimpse of the magic.

I imagine the magic will be short lived. The short hop from Cincinnati to Chicago was just the first hour of the 28 that I will spend on an airplane this week, with another 18 spent in airports waiting between flights. Frequent flyer miles are small consolation for the long trek back to work.