I remembered my baptism when I dipped my hand in the frigid blue water of a glacier, when I felt mist clinging to my face and dampening my clothes, when I watched the graceful, floating powdered sugar descent—deceptively powerful—of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall.
Southwest assumed the best of its passengers and treated them like smart, capable people. And we rose to the occasion.
I’m obsessed with the context that traveling by land brings to my destination, in a similar way that visiting a friend in their hometown is such a joy.
I wrote a play, how cool is that?
They drove off to their honeymoon in the same car he used to drive in college.
God the Creator, Mitsubishi the Manufacturer.
I lie and say that I’ve bought chairs and they’ll take a while to ship. The dust settles in my cart again.
There’s some aspect of being human, some primal need for face-to-face connection and physical contact that no amount of DMing, texting, or phone calls can fill.
Not even twenty four hours after the moment, thoughts of all the next steps had already derailed my joy.
Knowing that a man who’s well on his way to becoming a household name internationally loves the same baseball team as you has to be a good feeling.
