Traveling is a kind of limbo. It doesn’t belong to any world, or any routine, and it has a satisfying flavor of detachment that can be addictive. To me, traveling is the most enjoyable way of detaching. In the absence of flight cancellations and other insurmountable obstacles, it also feels empowering. It’s easy to get a little intoxicated by that sensation of complete control and independence when riding on a train to a place you’ve never been, or especially when flying above the clouds through those pristine stretches of sky. I wish commuting were more like this sometimes. But there’s something to be said for the occasional day of driving to the airport, parking your car, riding a shuttle to the terminal, flying over the Great Lakes and across an international border to the airport in Toronto, then locating and catching the 192 express bus to the Bloor-Danforth subway, taking this and another subway line to the coach terminal, where you buy tickets for and quickly board another bus at platform 7 (not platform 8, even though they are somehow the same platform!) for a two-hour ride into the country.