Know what I love about air travel? Tarmacs.
Their painted lines and patterns, the strange vocabulary of their directional signs, arcana that only the initiated in their strange head gear can understand.
I love that tarmacs are mostly always concrete (is this for visibility? I read once that concrete roadways afford more visibility than asphalt; produce fewer nighttime fatalities. Or is it simply because most tarmacs were laid during the age when most roads were paved with concrete?).
I love the gridded blocks of concrete that make the wheels bump a bit when we taxi. Love the red and blue lights that line the tarmac, tiny little sentries that keep me safe from harm.
Love the long low grassy medians that define these crazy divided highways, these ultimate open roads; love the patient courtship that planes play with each other as they find their spots before taking to the sky: cozy, approximate, but never too close.