I walk twice a day. On the first walk I listen to something, a podcast or a lecture, anything to stay curious and informed. On the second I listen to nothing. Just the forest, my thoughts, and the sky, especially when it’s clear.

Tonight it was clear. Living near the ocean means the stars are often out, and I walked in the dark looking up at the Big Dipper and a lot of things whose names I don’t know.

Then one of the stars started moving.

It was a plane, obviously. The nearest major airport is 60 kilometers away, and judging by its direction, it had probably just finished crossing the Atlantic. I watched it slide over the treetops, a slow blinking light with hundreds of people inside.

I imagine one of them left Mexico City this morning and has never been outside their country. Hours ago they were in a huge, loud city with wide avenues, busy markets, painted walls and the smell of corn and chili on every corner. Soon, they’ll step out into Bordeaux, where everything is smaller. The streets are narrow, the buildings are all the same pale stone, the sky is gray, and it’s probably raining.

People have coffee and a croissant for breakfast instead of tamales, in cafés where the windows fog up and everyone keeps their coat on. Nobody around them speaks their language. They’re not just changing places, they’re changing realities. The only thing that comes with them is the feeling of being human.

For nearly all of human history, a crossing like this took months, if it happened at all. My DNA says some of my ancestors came from Central America to Europe, then Africa. I have no ties to the Central America. Neither did my grandparents, and I’ve never been. I have no idea who those ancestors were, why they left, or how they crossed. But however they did it, it took months, with no promise of return. Tonight, someone can make the same crossing between breakfast and dinner, for a few hundred dollars, with a movie, a plastic tray of food and a nap.

I’ve traveled all my life, so landing has become routine for me, and that’s exactly the problem. It takes a first-timer, or a dark forest, to make me feel how strange it is.

I kept walking. The light shrank and disappeared, and the sky went back to being just ol’, regular stars. Somewhere past the horizon those people were collecting their luggage and starting whatever came next. For some of them it would be routine. For others, everything would change.

I’ll never know which.

Tomorrow I’ll probably see another airplane and think nothing of it.

But tonight, for a few minutes, I remembered to be amazed.

Teekay