Toddlers on a Plane Arianna Rafaele Payson

My family is anything but sedentary. Already in my life I have lived in Florida, Oklahoma, Texas, and have found myself in England nearly every summer. I have explored the rainforests of Australia and New Zealand, braved the oppressive heat of Utah, wandered the packed and pulsing markets of Thailand, had a staring contest with the Mona Lisa, ridden a malevolent camel in Morocco, made popsicles for elephants at the San Diego Zoo, watched the colors and outlandish fun of the Brighton Gay Pride parades, traversed lush green slopes in Ireland and Scotland, floated with fish off the coast of Bermuda, gazed at ancient monuments in Greece, and spent many a night in dark airports because flights were unceremoniously delayed. Everywhere I go there is a distinct taste, smell, sight, and sound, the un-announced heartbeat and lifeblood of the culture, like a whisper so soft you can only feel it. Stagnancy, it seems, is the bane of my existence. And so, I suppose, that I why I am most content in one of the most hated places on the globe: the airport. Not because of the lines, the security, the dreaded TSA agents, the tiny cramped economy section, the lukewarm airline food, the twelve-hour flights, or the rushing to make connections and the...