Washington, D.C.

The Stewardess on my flight here haltingly read a cheesy Christmas Eve poem about flying in the air, and the unsettling possibility of meeting Santa in the air. Being told that Santa may come in the door during the flight strangely reminds me of certain X Files episodes involving aliens visiting flying planes.

The descent into Reagan, under a dark clear sky, was unusually pretty, with house lights twinkling through barren tree branches.

I appear to be segregated into a tiny Delta commuter wing at the airport with six Delta gates reminiscent of the Northwest peninsula at Tokyo's Narita, albeit quite a but colder. DC is currently just below freezing, and NYC, just above.

Schizer. Even my city's weather is better.

The news shop in this wing has Republican and Democrat branded outerwear laid out like that of sports teams in other cities. The store has Election paraphernalia at a seventy five percent discount from the original price. You can still get your Kerry-Edwards bumper stickers ladies and gentlemen, but supplies are limited.

Ah boarding for Cin Cin. One last tidbit:

I am in REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT. The bar here, called the Federal Tavern, has a large RED STAR between Federal, and Tavern on the sign.

Perestroika indeed.

Also, we are enroute for Rendezvous with Titan. The first attempted landing by human craft on another moon. Forty years later.

Also, one in sixty-two chance of us being hit by an asteroid on April 13, 2029. Merry Christmakkahwanzaa.

Also, if you're in town on the evening of the 31st, drop me or the roommates a line. We're having a Tolstoy Appreciation Night. I am sure I have inadvertently left people off of the invite list.

Fly Away. Fly Away.