Trieste, Italy:  Tommy Roe is singing “Sheila” over the speakers at the Caffe degli Specchi in Trieste.    He is pretending to be Buddy Holly.   And now Bobby Vinton is crooning Blue Velvet.   Warmer than May her tender sighs.

I have no idea why American music from the sixties is—apparently—so popular in Italy.   To me, it seems so out of context and awkward, as if it should be welcoming to me as an American, but it isn’t.   I certainly don’t expect to get a good hamburger here, or even a good New York pizza (where, by the way, it was invented.)   But awkward or not, it just so happens to be my favorite type of music, and as such, it reminds me somewhat of a good landing at an unfamiliar airport.

As a pilot, there is little in life that compares with the thrill of a nicely executed landing.   Perhaps I am just stating the obvious when I say that in order to get there, or anywhere, you must go on the journey first.   You must take off and fly a while before you can experience the thrill of landing.

It has been said that the greatest thrill for a gambler is winning, and the second greatest thrill is losing.   For a pilot, the first thrill—if not the greatest, is the take-off.  The moment the wheels leave the ground and pilot and passengers are airborne is a thrill unlike any other.   It is a moment of sweet incredulity; it is a moment that happens but somehow is not supposed to happen.   It is similar to the simple, guilty thrill of breaking a rule and getting away with it.   In fact, when humans fly we are breaking the most fundamental “rule” of all—the law of gravity.

For some pilots, the flying itself– cruising above the surface of the earth, is their chief thrill.   Certainly, it is a vantage point one can hardly get any other way.   Personally, I love flying above the traffic on busy freeways, noting how stressful it feels to be down there stuck in a row of cars, and taking a brief moment of appreciation that there is nothing restricting my own movement but the limits of the airplane.

Then there is the thrill of landing.   I am not sure how other pilots measure this against the other aspects of flight, but it is certainly the biggest thrill to me, partly because it is the biggest challenge.   While you have certainly heard the pilot adage that any landing one walks away from is a good landing, there is clearly something special about gracefully touching down, planting the wheels on the ground like a sweet, gentle kiss on the cheek.   It is more, though, than the accomplishment.   It is also the symbolism.   Flying is dangerous– being planted on earth is less so.   Flying represents movement and stretching the boundaries of the possible, while landing represents the passive stillness and rootedness of home.   Travel without the sweetness of returning home yields more of a feeling of being lost than a feeling of safety.

For, as long as one is flying in the cockpit of an airplane, there is no looking across the table at one’s spouse of many years over coffee and tea, reading to each other what we have written.

Hearing about Tommy Roe’s sweet little Sheila whispering in my ear at a café in Trieste is certainly disorienting; where am I?   But a glance above the MacBook Air’s screen reveals the comfort of having a good landing.   There, you see, is the comfort of home.   Warmer than May her tender sighs.