Airplanes divide my life into chapters. They're the blank space at the end of a page. This is where Boston ends. This is where Santa Fe begins. End of summer. Start of Olin. Leave Western World. Enter Asia. Everything pauses. This where I leave behind everything comfortable and start another awkward phase. A clean slate.
What a bizarre little rebirth ritual -- leave one world, one face behind, jump into a tin can and soar through the [cough] heavens to fall into a new life. Or an old life.
There's not much else to do in airports or sandwiched semi-reclining seats other than contemplate where I've been and think about where I'm going. A waiting room. Everything is removed and objective. My life on a microscope slide.