It always seems like all of my carry-on belongings have a way of exploding when I travel; my purse is always unbearably heavy, I can never wear quite the right outfit for comfort and for dealing with the stuffy feeling of the airport and the recycled air of the plane. It seems like I forget that 4 am is the grossest time to wake up ever so I always book the earliest flight of the day. It seems like I always have to do the same song and dance of finding that “special safe place” that I left all of my important documents within my tiny apartment, and the stressful process of deciding just how many sweaters or pairs of pants to bring for a nine-day trip. It always seems like my gate is the last one in the terminal, like how just yesterday I crossed all of Pearson International only to also cross through O’hare Airport in Chicago for my connecting flight as well. It always seems like I can’t check in on time to get a reasonable seat so I am always middle seat of the middle row, back of the plane. It always seems like I can’t sleep for more than twenty minutes, and when I wake up from an uneven sleep I brutally have to pee and the man blocking the aisle is of course sleeping, and there is the strange debate of how and when to wake him. And then there is the glorious repetition of getting off of this damn ball of tin, achy from squishing into half a seat and tired from getting up in the middle of the night, walking to the baggage claim and seeing the most lovely people in the world. Time that was spent away catches up and everything is back to the perfect balance of home; that pattern never gets old.