When you're flying to Prague and Stevie Wonder comes on one of those looping airline radio channels, close you eyes and bam. You're a kid, sit-and-spinning, pogo-ball-jumping on the shag rug in your living room. There's piles of unfolded laundry all around, and you pop off whatever you're bouncing on and dive into a mound of warm towels, just out of the dryer.
After you stay under for a little while, you lift a towel from your eyes, and you're somehow below the clouds. The whole of Europe is land-locking you in, which is surprisingly the safest feeling ever.
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