When I was a teen growing up in Des Plaines, Illinois, some of us (the wilder kids) would hop the fence at O’Hare Airport and we’d lay on the tarmac and watch the planes take off over our heads.

Obviously, this was many years prior to a 9/11 world. Otherwise I’d be writing this blog post from a GITMO cell. It was a completely stupid activity. Yes, I know. But it was AWESOME to feel the ground rumble from the vibration of the engines and the roar of sound in your ears as they passed.

I remember thinking that it’s just that easy to go anywhere in the world; just a ride in a plane and your feet could touch the beaches of Perth or the old stone streets of Rome. The sensation must have settled in the middle of my bones. It calls out to me from deep within on weeks like this.

I’m overwhelmed with wishing for a big adventure in a far away place, carried in the belly of a jet that some kid is watching while lying on her back looking up from the ground below and dreaming her own dream of travel.


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