I have in front of me a copy of Jean-Marie Dru's new book, Jet Lag. Rather than a collection of case studies from the front line of disruption, it's a personal account of the people, places and ideas Dru has come across during 40 years of globetrotting. It's presented, rather neatly, in an A-Z format: from Apple to Zimbabwe.
Dru mentions that he always takes a window seat on planes, so he can admire the view on takeoff and landing. I can identify with that: right now I'm remembering views of the stepped green hills of Vietnam; the endless dunes of the Empty Quarter; the backwards S of the Grand Canal as it curves through the red rooftops of Venice. When he's not looking out of the window, Dru writes up his notes.
I must admit that I rarely write on planes. For me, they are a bubble of leisure, a place where I can indulge myself. I read trivial, glossy magazines. I buy the thickest, most exciting thriller I can find and consume it in one greedy sitting. (Ken Follet's Night Over Water may be the ultimate airplane book.) I watch Hollywood blockbusters and old TV shows (I discovered House that way - then had to go out and buy the other seasons). And of course I ask for an extra one of those cute little bottles of wine with lunch. Perhaps the way we travel shows us who we really are. Between here and there, we are free to be ourselves.
