Call me crazy, but I kind of love waiting for flights at the airport.
It may be the fact that I can sit totally uninterrupted and catch up on my never-ending supply of magazines. Or that I often purchase smutty magazines and snacks I wouldn't normally buy. Or maybe it's because the terminals feel a bit like mini cities—with their enticing storefronts and crowded restaurants. It could be the simplicity of having all my necessary belongings consolidated into one or two neat little bags. Or the fact that I know I'm headed out on an adventure of some sort.
Maybe it's a magical combination of all of the above.
Whatever it is, it makes me happy every time. It's almost like going to the airport triggers the same synapses in my brain that a trip to the spa does. The promise of free time and relaxation.
(I can almost hear Mr. W's eyes rolling right now as he formulates an argument that airports are filled with crying babies and overly loud phone-talkers.)
The first time Mr. W and I took at trip to Europe together, I quickly learned that our travel styles weren't exactly...twinsies. He has no problem running through train stations or getting to the airport just in time to make it through security and board the flight. That mode of operating deprives me of my beloved terminal quiet time. It's definitely not my favorite.
But with him gone—and needing to be visited regularly—I'm on my own for the next five months' worth of travels. And in addition to fully enjoying my airport time, I'm going to soak up the beauty of Canada as well. I really can't complain about the view here!