A speck in the ocean.
As a kid, holidays meant a series of day trips that started and ended at our brown front door, the one with the loose brass handle and the glass that rattled in the wind. Any overnight trips meant camping with the Scouts, returning home smelling of wood smoke and needing a bath. Not that long ago flying was still a novelty for me. It signified something different, an adventure. It meant that I was no longer tied to the routines of childhood holidays. That was until I started to fly for work. Two, or sometimes three, trips a year, interstate mainly, but with the occasional long haul thrown in, soon robs flying of its novelty and thrill. Work travel is more work that travel, and with a young family waiting at home, I was more likely to feel I was in a lonely place than in a Lonely Planet. This may sound like whingeing, but an early flight to Sydney followed by meetings and a night in a noisy hotel is travel robbed of the slightest po...