Let me tell you about eastbound travel.

You start in a perfectly reasonable timezone. Pacific is full of fruits and flakes but by God the water keeps us all relatively temperate, at least compared to our neighbors just one mountain range east.

Cold in the mornings, warmer as the day progresses. We are perpetually lazy in the springtime, lazier still in the summer.

We correspond with our Mexican neighbors pretty well here, and thats more than can be said about most bordering cultures. LA doesn't end until perhaps a little ways past Ensanada. Those guys should form the first post-NAFTA state, have killer climate and mostly nice people and do their own thing.

Thats another story, though. This one is about eastbound travel.

When you go more than a few states over you suddenly realize that you are, in fact, dabbling in time travel.

When I got on the plane it was three. When I got off the planet it was ten, but I only flew four and a half hours to get here. Where am I?

Sitting on the tarmac also burns hours. Somehow the plane still kind-of arrives on time thanks to a little thing we call marginal fuel consumption and a "healthy tailwind" that they now digitally provide you numbers on.

From 35,000" you can see that air is just another liquid. God has pleasantly put trace markers here over the surface of this bay, clouds hovering just off the mast of some fisherman in Iceland look little different from the wake below.

The proletariat nature of mass-movie screening no doubt keeps the price of the ticket right since, you know, they don't have to license anything you'd really want to watch. No fifteen channels, some with movies you can see mostly naked peeps for a brief second or two, something to keep the pulse pounding past what should be 4am and into whatever kind of goddamned time warp you are sending yourself into.

Or is it tomorrow already?

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