In the Beginning

I'm in an uncharacteristically fallow period, travel-wise, so now seems as good a time as any to relate my earliest travel experiences.

I was 10 the first time I stepped onto an airplane. I was with a class of fifth graders, part of a fantastic exchange experience organized by AFAC. We flew into Paris, where we had a truly extended layover of six hours before connecting to Nice. Having now traveled with students on my own, I can confidently say that if you were two teachers with 25 10-year-olds in tow, you'd want six hours, too.  Anyway, somewhere in that time while we were chowing down on PB&Js, the ingredients for which our teachers had brilliantly packed in their carry-ones, it began to rain hard. This wouldn't have mattered except that for reasons entirely unclear to my young mind, we had to go onto the tarmac to identify our bags. And thus ultimately departed for Nice a couple of hours late and more than a little soggy.

From this in auspicious beginning began my love-hate relationship with airplanes, airlines, and - if I'm honest - frequently travel itself.