The window seat

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  • Boeing 787 window
  • I used to love flying. The thrill of getting onto a plane, feeling the engines thrust us into the clouds loudly, then settling back and watching in-flight movies and eating those little meals that require some skill to navigate on the tiny seat-back tray table. The magic of getting on a plane somewhere, only to find yourself far away just a few hours later, was a stimulating. However, after years of travel, and the expansion of pointless security theatre, that old thrill has pretty much evaporated.

    I love to travel, but the whole process of flying is now something of an endurance of nonsense and procedure that’s surely unparalleled in any other area of everyday life. Laptops out, shoes off, clear plastic bags, and long lines of unquestioning obedience. We play our part in the security show like weary pantomime actors dancing through the tedium for the pay-check.

    Perhaps I’ll give up the skies one day in favor of more grounded modes of transport, where the journey is as much a part of the adventure as the destination. But for today, with no thrills and certainly no frills, I’m flying south to Melbourne, Australia.

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