I've read so many wonderful books on airplanes. By chance, it seems. In fact, they're often new authors (to me). I've seen the book on the shelf before. Perhaps the cover called to me, or maybe I've been resisting picking it up, subconsciously afraid it won't live up to my expectations, not wanting to lose the possibility that it might. But, feeling high on my vacation spirit, this time I pick it up. "I've got wanderlust ," I whisper to the book, fingering that promising cover. "Why don't you come with me?" And we're off. I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on an overnight flight to Rome. I hadn't realized transatlantic flights could be so...well, magical. It was pitch black on the other side of the oval window. Everyone else on the plane was asleep and a delicious shiver went up my spine as I read the last line of that very first chapter, "One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowi
