She couldn’t have known how essential a window seat is for me on my rare jet flights. But then again, since the Newark to Seattle leg will be the longest I’ve ever endured in a jet except for LaGuardia to Heathrow some years ago, maybe my daughter, who booked these coming flights, has saved me from the inevitable neck pain that comes when I obsessively MUST watch whatever is viewable out the nose-smudged porthole windows at whatever altitude we’re flying. Even unbroken expanses of clouds are good. You never know when a sudden opening might reveal a stunning vista of crop circles below! I have to look, no choice.
But if on this future trip, by luck of the draw, I’m wedged between the fat lady and the crying baby, it will just make me more appreciative for those times I pick my own window seats for the education their view inevitably provides.
I had forgotten to tell myself this high-altitude geology story from our recent travels: On the Charlotte to Saint Louis flight a couple of weeks ago, I had the ultimate (to date) plane-window learning experience: flying over the Smokies on a clear day in spring.