One of my all-time, ongoing, favorite moments of travel is the puff of Pacific air that - upon arriving in San Francisco - finds its way between the plane and the jetway: the first breath of the west.
But after years of mentioning this I now confess that I stole it from Henry James. Minus the jetway:
The principle I have just mentioned as operating had been, with the most newly disembarked of the two men, wholly instinctive--the fruit of a sharp sense that, delightful as it would be to find himself looking, after so much separation, into his comrade's face, his business would be a trifle bungled should he simply arrange for this countenance to present itself to the nearing steamer as the first "note," of Europe. Mixed with everything was the apprehension, already, on Strether's part, that it would, at best, throughout, prove the note of Europe in quite a sufficient degree.
That note had been meanwhile--since the previous afternoon, thanks to this happier device--such a consciousness of personal freedom as he hadn't known for years; such a deep taste of change and of having above all for the moment nobody and nothing to consider, as promised already, if headlong hope were not too foolish, to colour his adventure with cool success.
I missed it today. I wasn't paying attention. link
For me it is the puff of cold, thick salt air that greets me in the jetway after landing in Halifax, after the plane has sliced through a pea soup of fog. Semi-apocryphal fact: Halifax International Airport was located far inland from the ocean - and inconveniently far from the city - because they wanted to avoid fog. No one told the planners, however, that trees "eat" fog most effectively. The clear-cut area where the airport is located is now a fog magnet.
Posted by: Zack Taylor | December 01, 2006 at 10:05 AM