You are holding in your hands an airline magazine. Unless, of course, you are holding in your hands a drink and you're using the magazine as a coaster. Which is fine, too. We've all done it. I've even used the little picture of me over there on the left as a kind of target upon which to center my drink. It's harder than you think, getting it perfect, time after time. After missing a couple of times, I usually make designs from the rings, as if that's what I intended all along. (I get bored easily.)
But fascinating as they are, my travel quirks aren't the subject of this column. (Some other column. Promise.) The subject is the same as that of this special issue: a select group of people who travel so much that they've earned their own moniker, "Road Warrior," which, as far as I can figure, means they can play as many games on my face as they want.
That, in turn, means I probably ought to write about them. But first I'm going to write about me.
When I was young, I wanted to travel constantly and see the world. For a while, I did. Travel constantly, that is. I only sort of saw the world. Driving beat-up cars after (and, well, during) college, from one end of this country to the other, what I mostly saw were gas station repair garages and cheap dives where health departments feared to tread. It was glorious. (Be forewarned, children: That's what your parents refer to as the good old days.)
Somewhere along the line, I became an adult and got a job. The job required travel. Here's the amazing part. The company paid for the travel. I couldn't believe it.
I thought, Let me get this straight. They pay me to do what I happily did for free all those years? What's the catch? I thought for a while that I was either the beneficiary of the greatest scam in history or I was being set up.