I have to, it’s a passion, a need, an obsession. The travel ‘bug’ got me early---at age eight when I went by boat to England with my grandmother. The plane-as-travel-means ‘bug’ got me much later, as in southern Africa at that time air travel was expensive and not common for ordinary people. I only took my first plane trip in my 20s, but from that first thrust of the engines, that feeling of power and speed on my first take-off, I was hooked.
Since then, I fly as a means of getting somewhere, but also for the fun of getting there. I love the smell of jet fuel, the hustle and bustle of airports. There’s such a feeling of expectancy and anticipation and I love to watch people---where are they going, who will they see? And all of them are being moved, are getting there by this wonder on wings.
Each time I fly overseas I’m awed again, at how this machine, this encapsulated space in which I sit, travels high over the clouds and sea, and delivers me to a far destination. I experience a feeling of reverence when we fly over land during the daylight hours too---huge mountain ranges spread out like folded rugs below us, patterns of lakes and forests, a river glinting like a long silver snake, or sand in the desert rippling out. We can see this earth of ours from above, as the angels would if they could peek down. It gives a new appreciation of what a wonderful place it is, a masterpiece of diversity, which is entirely different from seeing it from the windows of a clacking train, or from a car speeding along a highway.
At home, I hear a plane fly over and that familiar restless urge begins---I need, I want to be in a plane going somewhere, anywhere, and flying over other people’s houses. They might look up and wonder where I am going, but the destination isn’t the most important thing. The going is.
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