I’ve Always Loved Departures

I’ve always loved the moment just after boarding.

The small ritual of settling in. The glass in hand. The quiet thrill of knowing that, for the next few hours, the rest of life can wait. Emails unanswered. Messages paused. The ground already beginning to feel less relevant.

Departure suits me.

Not because I’m running from anything, but because travel reminds me who I am when I’m not buried under routine. I become more observant. More sensual. More appreciative. I notice the details more closely when I’m in motion.

A chilled glass before takeoff is one of those tiny luxuries I never dismiss. It marks the transition. The shift from obligation into possibility.

I think that’s what I truly love about travel: not only the destination, but the permission it gives you to become slightly more available to life. To beauty. To surprise. To pleasure. To reinvention, even in small ways.

There is romance in airports, in my opinion, when you stop treating them like inconveniences and start seeing them for what they are: thresholds.

And I have always been fond of thresholds.

Where I’m going matters, of course.

But I’ll admit it—sometimes I love the leaving just as much.