I’m flying home from across the country after a week of work away from home. Flying out of this particular area offers incredible views at a most amazing part of our country. The scenery is amazing with the rocky mountains standing in the background. My flight had to circle around after lift off, so everyone on board had the opportunity to observe the incredible landscape all around. Everyone, that is, except me. It never fails that I get the seat with the perfect view of the wing. The wing! It’s beautiful. The way the sun reflects off of the rows of screws, the way those flaps move in and out, and the way the message “do not walk here” captures your eye and doesn’t let go. Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking.
It seems to me that the wing is always just outside my window. It doesn’t matter which seat is assigned to me, the wing will be there blocking my view. In previous flights, I have heard people gawking at the splendor of the Grand Canyon, or the view of the Washington monument, and all I can think is how it looks a lot like an airplane wing. My seat can be in row one, five, twenty-two –it does not matter, the wing will be there. I honestly think that if I were to be the pilot of the aircraft, the wing would still be there obstructing my view, sticking out of the front of the plane.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain, if you look out of left side of the plane you’ll get a great view of Yellowstone National Park, and since we will be turning around in order to correct our flight path, those of you on the right will also have the opportunity. Oh, except you Marcus, if you’ll notice please, that’s our wing.”
I always lean forward in my seat to note the person across the way on the opposite side of the aircraft with the prime view of the other wing. I feel a special connection to this other poor soul who shares the equally unimpressive view of the aircraft wing. On today’s flight, my wing-observing partner is actually a blind man.