The Joy of Looking Out an Airplane Window

I know there are no shortage of stories in the news about how awful commercial air travel is today. For me, it’s the airport that is the worst part of the experience. But from the moment the aircraft takes off until it touches down upon landing, I have to say that I still love the experience of flying.

Ever since I took my very first airplane trip when I was in kindergarten, I’ve been captivated by our decidedly unnatural ability to soar to high altitudes and to stay there for hours. Some who may have experienced the privilege of international travel may share in my amazement that something as large as a wide-body jet can stay suspended in the air for nearly 24 hours.

Even on domestic trips, I often find myself just staring out the window for most of the trip. At risk of relying upon a cliché to describe the experience, watching the world pass at high altitude is somewhat of a zen-like thing for me.

When my wife and I were on our way to Chicago earlier this month, I watched the world slowly pass by even though I knew we weren’t really moving all that slowly.

From an artistic point of view, I love how airplane windows frame the peacefulness of the view from a high altitude.

Toward the end of that day on the connecting flight into Chicago, I watched another phenomenon that my astronomy hobby has made me aware of: the wedge-shaped transition from day to night as it appears from high altitude.

Just as I still feel a sense of wonder about experiencing something most people don’t see or do every day, so too do I look around the airplane cabin and feel a sense of puzzlement about folks who promptly and indifferently close the window shade, stare into their devices, and ignore what ought to be an amazing thing.

I suppose I’m a little old fashioned. I’ve never liked cell phones. For the longest time, I resisted getting a smartphone. To this day, I use my old but still functional iPhone 8 sparingly. Especially before the availability of Wi-Fi on planes, I always felt that the two or three hours where we’re all forced to be disconnected from the internet to be a good thing. Whether it’s up in the air or anywhere else, an appreciation of that disconnection is falling by the wayside more and more, at least for many of us.

For others, though, there is a strong movement to push away the constant connectedness that modern tech has given us. Whether it takes the form of modern-day dumbphones, film photography, or anything else that represents the same basic kind of stepping back that propelled the Arts and Crafts movement of the early twentieth century, many have a palpable sense of hesitation with the extent to which we’ve become attached to technology and how often it blocks us from experiencing the here and now. For me, sitting in a window seat on a flight from wherever to wherever is an opportunity to enjoy an experience I’ve always found to be thrilling.

Yesterday when I was out and about, I saw a bird glide in for a landing against a good breeze. Its movement wasn’t too unlike how an aircraft flares its flaps and scoops the air for a gentle touchdown on the runway. I asked my wife, who was walking with me at the time, whether birds feel a sense of exhilaration about their natural ability to fly. It may be that they feel nothing more than what I feel when I walk across a room. But a little part of me suspects that they experience at least a little joy when they soar high in the sky.