As I have mentioned elsewhere on teh intarw3bz, I will be driving to Norfolk in August despite the very generous offer from one blogger to throw some Frequent Flier miles my way.
This is a matter of pure cussedness on my part. When people ask me if the steel rod in my shin sets off metal detectors, I like being able to answer truthfully "I don't know." (That's right; I haven't been through a metal detector since August of 2000.)
I love flying. I love airplanes. I loved it when my dad worked for Eastern when I was little and we flew a lot. I remember flying on a Delta L-1011 to see my grandparents; my first trip by myself, with a big book about commercial airliners open in my lap and chatting happily with the flight attendants and anyone else who'd listen about how cool this all was. I still have that book someplace, with my seat marked in yellow highlighter. I loved hanging out the window of a Cessna 172 with a camera back when I worked in aerial photography. I loved standing on the ramp and watching our 310s roar up the taxiway through fog so thick you could barely see their lights. I love planes. But I won't go to the airport anymore. Not with the farce that flying has become. Two-hour waits for a ninety-minute flight. Inane security procedures. I'll drive instead, because my car won't grope me or steal stuff from my luggage.