I Love the Smell of Jetfuel in the Morning
|Aboard the S.S. France|
When I was 6 weeks old, my parents loaded me onto a boat and the whole family shipped off to Italy. We lived in hotels before we moved into an apartment and I developed a taste for coffee because my nanny, Maria, laced my bottle with the beverage.
So now, when I smell diesel fuel, I want to go somewhere. Fast.
I love everything about travel, including the getting there part. The straight to video movies, the bad food. The little bottles of vodka.
In the old days, we used to get 'travel bags' from the flight attendants. You know, filled with shoehorns, toothbrush and paste. Comb.
On the odd occasion I get upgraded to biz/first class then yes, love the blankets or comforters, the slippers, the fold out flat seats, the warm chocolate chip cookies.
|Dinner aboard the S.S. France. My mom, baby sister and me.|
Ever since I was a nerdy kid, sitting in an airport bar in Lisbon, watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon and waiting for our flight to the States, I've never known an airport I didn't love. Even the time we landed in the middle of a Costa Rican jungle in a flimsy Russian made prop, and my husband looked out the window and said: "S&%t! We're landing here??" I grabbed the kids and held on, my heart beating out of rhythm, but for all the right reasons.
Years later, I'm still a nerdy kid at heart. Always getting ready for my next trip.