I look up every time I hear an airplane.
It doesn't matter where I am.
A city street.
A park.
A train platform.
The sound pulls my eyes upward before I even realize I'm looking.
Immediately I try to guess the airline.
The tail.
The underbelly as it passes overhead.
Where it came from.
Where it’s going.
Whether it's an Airbus or a Boeing.
An A350.
Somehow it looks like a superhero wearing a mask.
An A380.
A floating whale.
Cities in the sky.
Maybe that's why I still look up every time.
And somehow we've made it ordinary.
But it's what you don't see that I think about.
Thousands of people.
Thousands of stories.
Thousands of reasons for leaving.
Thousands of reasons for returning.
I have no idea how many people are in the sky at any given moment.
I only know it's enough to remind me that while I'm living my story...
thousands of others are quietly living theirs.
Some in first class.
Most in the back.
I've flown in both.
People assume comfort prepares you for travel.
I'm not sure it does.
Sometimes I think the back of the plane teaches you things the front never will.
The broken recliner.
The neighbor who never gets up.
Fighting for the armrest.
The crying baby.
The cabin that's somehow too hot...
then too cold.
Long hauls.
Overnight flights without sleep.
None of that is pleasant.
But...
It teaches:
Adaptability.
Patience.
Tolerance.
Anyone can enjoy the front of the plane.
Tea in a proper mug.
A bed instead of a seat.
A small amenity kit you'll probably never use...
and somehow still take home.
There's nothing wrong with comfort.
But I'm grateful I learned how to travel in the back.
I've needed those lessons far more often than I've needed the legroom.
Because life doesn't always upgrade you.
— a. nomad