At Cedar Rapids airport I found a place to plug in my iPhone – a lifeline to the world I leave behind too often – and a corner table someone had just abandoned. The waitress, unsmiling, tattooed, dark roots with frosted blonde hair, took my order. She came back in no time at all with a scorching plate of microwaved nachos and half a gallon of Diet Coke in a plastic cup. I burned my fingers on the plate.

I had been on the road for two weeks and I was bone tired. I missed my son, I missed my own bed with clean white sheets, I missed my home. I missed making coffee in the morning in my glass pot and looking out at the early-morning light, purple in winter, pink in summer, over Boulevard Raspail.

Well Done, No. 3777!
Ian Jack | Is Travel Writing Dead?