My first really memorable flight experience happened two years ago. I come from a relatively small town in Northeast Arkansas where cultural travel is not considered a priority. But from a very young age, my family always supported whatever wild dreams I entertained.
This led to me, at 22 years old, taking my first solo international journey. My mom dropped me off at the Clinton National Airport in Little Rock where my long trek to Ponferrada, Spain to teach English for the summer began. I boarded a short flight to Atlanta as my anticipation grew. From there, I flew to Paris. That was when the real excitement set in. I was lucky enough to sit by an interesting couple headed to southern France to be married the next week. I was even luckier to nab a window seat. When it came time for the evening meal, I was taken aback by the yummy hot food, and I got enjoyed my first mini airplane bottle of wine. My favorite part of the flight, though, was in the early morning hours, racing toward the sunrise as land came into view. I’ll never forget the freedom and exhilaration I felt knowing I was all alone in a big world on my way to do great things in a foreign country.
From Paris, a flight to Madrid, and a five-hour bus ride to Ponferrada still remained, but for me, getting there has always been half the fun.