It's 11:30am, and my flight has already been delayed almost two hours. I'm sitting as patiently as possible in a terminal at Logan International, staring out the window, and willing my Jet Blue flight to pull up to the gate. I shiver as I shift in my leather seat; while it's August outside, it seems more like November in here. I have moved at least three or four times to different chairs, chasing the sun around the room. I have to admit, though, it's not just because of the cold. I'm also ridiculously excited to be here; I love to travel, and the novelty of flying has not yet worn off.
Finally, I see my plane- destined for JFK in New York-pull up outside the window. My heart tap dances in my chest; there's no turning back now. A few moments later, I hear the announcement that calls passengers in rows including mine to board the plane, and I spring up, eager to get on the aircraft and get settled.
On the plane, I walk down the aisles, searching for my seat. I breathe a sigh of releif and can't help but smile when I realize I have a window seat. I love window seats. I love to watch to watch the guys work on out on the tarmac, and the way ground fades away during take off (even though it makes me nauseous) and how the land comes back into sharp focus during landing. Window seats also provide unique opportunities to take pictures from a bird's eye view. This picture is the very first picture I took on my trip.
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