As a person who flies in and out of New York several times a year, and like most adults who've boarded an airplane, I guess I've inured myself to the terror and awe one might expect a land mammal to experience when being propelled through the atmosphere. Though I am always sure to book a window seat, it's because the view helps stave off the boredom of air travel, and frankly I'd rather be randomly seated next to one person than two. Aeronautics is no longer the domain of dreamers and restless engineers, but open to those of us who'd rather just get there faster and watch some Direct TV on the way. Slightly tragic, but not surprising; practicality consuming the sublime. It so happened that one of the highlights of my Spring Break came, quite accidentally, in through the windows of the Airbus A320 I took out of Florida yesterday. I suppose I could have calculated the event, but I just happened to be sitting on the right side of a northward flight over the Atlantic at 6:00 AM, and the solar system did the rest. There was the brilliant Morning Star, and below it was another celestial body, dimmer but still visible slightly above the brightening Eastern horizon. It was the first time I'd ever seen the planet Mercury. Below us I could just barely discern the outline of an island, lit up on the edges by hotels and streetlights. At 6:20am I got to watch the sun rise over the Bahamas, neon acid light highlighting the wispy clouds a few thousand feet below, a wobbley red orb peaking over the slight curve of the earth and penetrating the cabin windows to produce a static disco-ball effect of red ovals, on the passengers, on the crew, throughout the fuselage. And in that moment I truly appreciated air travel.