Last Sunday, Zach and I were up in the air again. Masked and loaded up with backpacks, we shuffled onto the plane and settled into our seats for our flight from St. Louis to Portland, Oregon. After so many years of piecing together shorter flights and long layovers, I always feel like I'm teleporting when, a mere four hours after takeoff, we land in the alternate reality that is the Pacific Northwest. (This reality was obviously from a different timeline than usual, though: how else could you explain the 111ºF temperatures?)
