Tarmac Quotes

It had ceased raining in the night and he walked out on the road and called for the dog. He called and called. Standing in that inexplicable darkness. Where there was no sound anywhere save only the wind. After a while he sat in the road. He took off his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.

She wanted to tell him so mach, on the tarmac, the day he left. The world is run by brutal men and the surest proof is their armies. If they ask you to stand still, you should dance. If they ask you to burn the flag, wave it. If they ask you to murder, re-create.

We enter a time of calamity. Blood on the tarmac. Fingers in the juicer. Towers of air frozen in the lunar wastes. Models dead on the runways, with their legs facing backward. Children with smiles that can’t be undone. Chicken shall rot in the aisles. See the pillars fall.

Ten years had passed since we’d met on a very different tarmac, and the sight of her still left me speechless.

He could never go back to that place, it had been sealed off to him for ever, blown to the sky with explosives then flattened to the ground with bulldozers, built over with tarmac, lived on top of by other people.

I was thankful that nobody was there to meet me at the airport. We reached Paris just as the light was fading. It had been a soft, gray March day, with the smell of spring in the air. The wet tarmac glistened underfoot; over the airfield the sky looked very high, rinsed by the afternoon's rain to a pale clear blue. Little trails of soft cloud drifted in the wet wind, and a late sunbeam touched them with a fleeting underglow. Away beyond the airport buildings the telegraph wires swooped gleaming above the road where passing vehicles showed lights already.

There is a strange, slow moment. The final page in my inconclusive and fraying thesaurus. And I am floating upwards, I am driftwood between them. The bright, bright blue that is the sky. And the glitter in the tarmac, like a promise of stars.

Not at all sure that she was, Taylor eyed the jet warily as she crossed the tarmac and climbed the metal steps leading up to the passenger hold. When she got to the top, she stopped before Jason, going for an unimpressed look. “How original. Didn’t I see this in Pretty Woman?” Jason smiled pleasantly. “Let’s hope the evening ends as well for me as it did for Richard Gere.” He winked.

The sky was a blanket of grey, tarmac-coloured clouds with no hint of the blue beyond them.

Hamilton dabbed a tissue at the cut under his eye. "Except for the time I met the Great Khali, that was the coolest thing I've ever done!" The foursome, only slightly the worse for wear, stood on the tarmac of the small airfield outside Milan, transferring their luggage from the limo to Jonah's jet for the flight back to Florence. "You didn't do anything, yo," Jonah seethed. "It was done to all of us by the freak show with the nerve to complain that the family branches are too violent!

She wanted to tell him so much, on the tarmac, the day he left. The world is run by brutal men and the surest proof is their armies. If they ask you to stand still, you should dance. If they ask you to burn the flag, wave it. If they ask you to murder, re-create. Theorem, anti-theorem, corollary, anti-corollary. Underline it twice. It’s all there in the numbers. Listen to your mother. Listen to me, Joshua. Look me in the eyes. I have something to tell you.

A thud, and the second wheel hits the tarmac. The staccato of a hundred seat-belt buckles snapping open, and the single-use friend you almost died sitting next to says: I hope you make your connection. Yeah, me too. And this is how long your moment lasted. And life goes on.

Anyone who lives in a city will know the feeling of having been there too long. The gorge-vision that the streets imprint on us, the sense of blockage, the longing for surfaces other than glass, brick, concrete and tarmac....I have lived in Cambridge on and off for a decade, and I imagine I will continue to do so for years to come. And for as long as I stay here, I know I will have to also get to the wild places.

Uncle Tarmac says vehicles always resemble their owners, and likes advising my female cousins to judge whether boyfriends will make decent husbands or not by observing how they treat or mistreat their cars.

Those blanked-out eternities at the airport. Getting there, waiting there, standing shoeless in long lines. Think about it. We take off our shoes and remove our metal objects and then enter a stall and raise our arms and get body-scanned and sprayed with radiation and reduced to nakedness on a screen somewhere and then how totally helpless we are all over again as we wait on the tarmac, belted in, our plane eighteenth in line, and it’s all ordinary, it’s routine, we make ourselves forget it. That’s the thing.” She said, “What thing?” “What thing. Everything. It’s the things we forget about that tell us who we are.

You have five minutes or I decorate the tarmac with my brains.

Everything has changed. The instant the car slid across the wet tarmac, my whole life changed. I can see everything clearly, as though I am standing on the sidelines. I can't go on like this.

At last, the land of opportunity has stretched an exclusive hand toward me. Is this how my parents felt, landing on the tarmac of a new and unfamiliar country, trying to twist their tongues in a new language? Afraid and lonely, yet powerful?

Scott walked away and did not look back. They knew Maggie would try to follow him, and she did. In her world, they were a pack, and the pack stayed together. Maggie whined and barked, and he heard her claws scrape the tarmac like files. Budress had cautioned him not to look back or wave bye-bye or any of the silly things people did. Dogs weren't people. Eye contact would make her struggle harder to reach him. A dog could see your heart in your eyes, Budress told him, and dogs were drawn to our hearts.

One day when I woke up I found him reading my papers. It was as though he were violating my body. Maybe if he had violated my body it would have been less painful. I said: ‘Those are my papers and you have no right to read them.’ His answer was to pick up the pile of papers and throw them out of the window. I jumped out of the window thinking I would be able to save them from being lost. I would have killed myself, broken my head on the tarmac road. It was not a moment of madness. I was perfectly aware of what I was doing. I had worked on my novel day and night for months, and then had covered three hundred pages with my handwriting. To me, rescuing the novel was like saving my life.

Yanking at my leg, straining every muscle, my customized Gray Ghost rebuilt as a chopper sparks and squeals. My boot catches and I'm flipped. Sliding down E-70 Highway on leather, my gloves scrubbed by the tarmac.

I still think Connie was a human man, a very, very good one—but a man. I have been wrong in my judgments many times before; if now I am ignorant and blind, I’m sorry, but it’s no new thing. If that should be the case though, it means that I have had great privileges in my life, perhaps more so than any man alive today. Because it means that on the fields and farms of England, on the airstrips of the desert and the jungle, in the hangars of the Persian Gulf and on the tarmacs of the southern islands, I have walked and talked with God.

It just doesn’t make sense,” Elizabeth insisted. “Are we supposed to believe that civilization has just come to an end?” “Well,” Clark offered, “it was always a little fragile, wouldn’t you say?” They were sitting together in the Skymiles Lounge, where Elizabeth and Tyler had set up camp. “I don’t know.” Elizabeth spoke slowly, looking out at the tarmac. “I’ve been taking art history classes on and off for years, between projects. And of course art history is always pressed up close against non-art history, you see catastrophe after catastrophe, terrible things, all these moments when everyone must have thought the world was ending, but all those moments, they were all temporary. It always passes.” Clark was silent. He didn’t think this would pass.

And so it was that, about a week later, we crossed a strip of warm, black tarmac and I brought Hassan's son from Afghanistan to America, lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty.

Woods and forests have been essentialt to the imagination of these islands, and of countries throughout the world, for centuries. It is for this reason that when woods are felled, when they are suppressed by tarmac and concrete and asphalt, it is not only unique species and habitats that disappear, but also unique memories, unique forms of thought.

There is a madman who lives on the road to Mkushi. Every full moon he comes out onto the tarmac and digs a deep trench across the road. Dad would like to find the madman and bring him back to the farm. 'Think what a strong bugger he is, eh?' 'Yes, but you could only get him to work when there was a full moon.' 'Which is twice as hard as any other Zambian.

The highway looked different to him now, as they drove on. In theory it was the same stretch of tarmac, bounded by the same traffic paraphernalia and flimsy metal fences, but it had been transformed by their own intent. It was no longer a straight line to an airport, it was a mysterious hinterland of shadowy detours and hidey-holes. Proof, once again, that reality was not objective, but always waiting to be reshaped and redefined by one’s attitude. Of course, everybody on earth had the power to reshape reality. It was one of the things Peter and Beatrice talked about a lot. The challenge of getting people to grasp that life was only as grim and confining as you perceived it to be. The challenge of getting people to see that the immutable facts of existence were not so immutable after all. The challenge of finding a simpler word for immutable than immutable.

I melt and swell at the moment of landing when one wheel thuds on the runway but the plane leans to one side and hangs in the decision to right itself or roll. For this moment, nothing matters. Look up into the stars and you’re gone. Not your luggage. Nothing matters. Not your bad breath. The windows are dark outside and the turbine engines roar backward. The cabin hangs at the wrong angle under the roar of the turbines, and you will never have to file another expense account claim. Receipt required for items over twenty-five dollars. You will never have to get another haircut. A thud, and the second wheel hits the tarmac. The staccato of a hundred seat-belt buckles snapping open, and the single-use friend you almost died sitting next to says: I hope you make your connection. Yeah, me too. And this is how long your moment lasted. And life goes on.

Wars of the Roses, The Far too hard to explain. There are just two things to remember. Firstly, it was the basis for Games Of Throne, except that the man who wrote that, Sir George RRRRRR Martin, changed the names so he wouldn’t get sued, and made it more realistic by filling it with dragons and dwarves and loads of tits. Lastly, the most violent event of the Wars of the Roses was the Battle of Bosworth, which Richard III tried to escape by burrowing under a car park. He hid there for centuries, but eventually we found him. Alas, it was too late, and he’d died of tarmac inhalation.

Along some northern coast at sundown a beaten gold light is waterborne, sweeping across lakes and tracing zigzag rivers to the sea, and we know we're in transit again, half numb to the secluded beauty down there, the slate land we're leaving behind, the peneplain, to cross these rainbands in deep night. This is time totally lost to us. We don't remember it. We take no sense impressions with us, no voices, none of the windy blast of the aircraft on the tarmac, or the white noise of flight, or the hours waiting. Nothing sticks to us but smoke in our hair and clothes. It is dead time. It never happened until it happens again. Then it never happened.

The wet tarmac glowed orange from the streetlights.

I left them all and walked briskly towards the aeroplane not looking back, looking only at my shadow before me, a dancing dwarf on the tarmac (122).

Thinking of a boy standing on the tarmac by the ghost plane, Air Gradia Flight 452, Arthur Leander's beloved only son, reading verses about plagues aloud to the dead.

A liquid movement below on the tarmac; a cat, hunting in the shadows.

The airport in Sofia was a tiny place; I'd expected a palace of modern communism, but we descended to a modest area of tarmac and strolled across it with the other travelers. Nearly all of them were Bulgarian, I decided, trying to catch something of their conversations. They were handsome people, some of them strikingly so, and their faces varied from the dark-eyed pale Slav to a Middle-Eastern bronze, a kaleidoscope of rich hues and shaggy black eyebrows, noses long and flaring, or aquiline, or deeply hooked, young women with curly black hair and noble foreheads, and energetic old men with few teeth. They smiled or laughed and talked eagerly with one another; one tall man gesticulated to his companion with a folded newspaper. Their clothes were distinctly not Western, although I would have been hard put to say what it was about the cuts of suits and skirts, the heavy shoes and dark hats, that was unfamiliar to me.

t smells in. Let the smell of hot tarmac in the summer remind you of a meal you ate the first time you landed in a hot place, when the ground smelled like it was melting. Let the smell of salt remind you of a paper basket of fried clams you ate once, squeezing them with lemon as you walked on a boardwalk. Let it reach your deeper interest. When you smell the sea, and remember the basket of hot fried clams, and the sound of skee-balls knocking against each other, let it help you love what food can do, which is to tie this moment to that one. Then something about the wind off the sea will have settled in your mind, and carried the fried clams and squeeze of a lemon with it.

In May 1993, Clinton ordered the presidential plane to wait on the tarmac at Los Angeles International Airport while he got a haircut from Christophe Schatteman, a Beverly Hills hairdresser. Schatteman’s clients have included Nicole Kidman, Goldie Hawn, and Steven Spielberg. “We flew out of San Diego to L.A. to pick him up,” recalls James Saddler, a steward on the infamous trip. “Some guy came out and said he was supposed to cut the president’s hair. Christophe cut his hair, and we took off. We were on the ground for an hour. They closed the runways.” While Christophe cut Clinton’s hair, two runways at LAX were closed. That meant all incoming and outgoing flights had to be halted. Clinton’s thoughtlessness inconvenienced passengers throughout the country. Like

She wanted to tell him so much, on the tarmac, the day he left. The world is run by brutal men and the surest proof is their armies. If they ask you to stand still, you should dance. If they ask you to burn the flag, wave it. If they ask you to murder, re-create.

They were turning now, panning past the Sandias, the black-green crags and rocky faces, the ribbon of road leading to the white crest. Amina looked down on Albuquerque, the light bouncing off the sprawling tile of houses and pools, the cars running along the highways like busy insects. She imagined all of it gone, undone, erased back to 1968, when the city was nothing but eighty miles of hope huddling in a desert storm. She imagined Kamala on the tarmac, walking toward a life in the desert, her body pulled forward by faith and dirty wind.

He took of his hat and placed it on the tarmac before him and he bowed his head and held his face in his hands and wept. He sat there for a long time and after a while the east did gray and after a while the right and godmade sun did rise, once again, for all and without distinction.

it was as that strange, vivid night was drawing to a close, as the faint blue light of dawn had begun to seep into the sky's black ink, that i suddenly thought of you, dong-ho. yes, you'd been there with me, that day. until something like a cold cudgel had suddenly slammed into my side. until i collapsed like a rag doll. until my arms flung themselves up in mute alarm, amid the cacophony of footsteps drumming against the tarmac, ear-splitting gunfire. until i felt the warm spread of my own blood moving up over my shoulder, the back of my neck. until then, you were with me.

I’ve never seen a soul here. No one shows themselves in the dismal wet fields, patchworked into sections by wire fences. No one toils behind the tufted vestiges of hedgerow. Few birds mark the sky beside the desultory spectre of a crow. As for trees, only spindly copses sprout on higher ground, shorn or shattered into piteous last stands; the woods have been whittled skeletal behind the wire of internment camps, to make room for more empty fields. And cement barns. Telegraph poles. Litter in the roadside ditches. Burst animals on tarmac, smeared, further compressed. Denatured land. Denuded. Scrub grubbed out, scraped away. Ugly and too neat. Empty. Industrial even. Blasted. Nowhere for anything to nest, take root, hide. Green but made desolate by the impact of the nearest settlement’s conquest. These are factory-farmed lowlands orbiting a city. A ring of ice encircling a blackened planet.

We sat on the verandah drinking beer before we left, the hotel dark behind us. The moonlight was so strong we could see the grains of white sand glittering individually where it had been flung across the tarmac by the ox-wagon wheels. The heavy-hanging, pointed leaves of the gum-trees shone like tiny spears. I

Increasingly we live in a world of concrete, tarmac, television, and computer screens. These are great mechanical and electronic constructs of the human intellect--but they blot out our view of the rising and setting sun and keep our feet from being grounded in the earth, which in many cultures is a sacred act of communion

One week after New Year's Day in 2006, I was on a flight to Aceh…As we walked down the steps on to the tarmac, the air felt humid and tropical, familiar and almost Balinese. It felt like going home. As the heavy air embraced me, my first inclination was to relax into it, but yet this was not home and my entire body remained on edge.

it. It’s in the way the Dixie cups and crumpled cigarette packs blow across the tarmac in the pre-dawn wind. It whispers from the sign on the gas pumps, the one that says PAY FOR GAS IN ADVANCE AFTER SUNDOWN. It’s in the teenage boy across the street, sitting on a porch stoop at four-thirty in the morning with his head in his arms, a silent essay in pain. The secret highways are out close, and they whisper to him. “Come on, buddy,” they say. “Here is where you can forget everything, even the name they tied on you when you were nothing but a naked, blatting baby still smeared with your mother’s blood. They tied a name to you like a can to a dog’s tail, didn’t they?

This year something else is the terror. The road edging away and then dropping from sight, the judder judder judder as we move from tarmac to dirt. Is Mum crying? I don’t know. Should we ask? No answer to that and, anyway, the house is there now and no time to go back or try again or do things over. This the year we are houses, lights on in every window, doors that won’t quite shut. When one of us speaks we both feel the words moving on our tongues. When one of us eats we both feel the food slipping down our gullets. It would have surprised neither of us to have found, slit open, that we shared organs, that one’s lungs breathed for the both, that a single heart beat a doubling, feverish pulse.

The flight attendant standing at the top of the jet stairs slipped a hand behind her back and threaded her fingers around the grip of the pistol tucked under her jacket. Thumbing the safety down, she eyed the figure approaching confidently from the darkness beyond the lights illuminating the tarmac and wondered if she should go ahead and pull her weapon.

Outside, on the other side of a black iron grill, was another crowd, just as anxious, just as sweaty and frightened. These were the parents and friends of those departing. They all waited for deliverance. When all the customs procedures had been completed, when the crowd of travelers had passed through the last security booths and were walking toward the tarmac, you could see, on the faces of those left behind, the relief, the joy, the pride of vicarious success. The vision of a happier future elsewhere, anywhere but here. Smiles of contentment, faces radiant with happiness. Nowhere else in the world does separation bear the hideous face of joy. This was a grotesque face, a deviation from all rules of human nature.

But I had learned to see another type of wildness, to which I had once been blind: the wildness of natural life, the sheer force of ongoing organic existence, vigorous and chaotic. This wildness was not about asperity, but about luxuriance, vitality, fun. The weed thrusting through a crack in a pavement, the tree root impudently cracking a carapace of tarmac: these were wild signs, as much as the storm wave and the snowflake.

Normally the first to read the small print, I had deliberately hidden away any paperwork that referred to this ridiculous task, and now I found myself kissing goodbye to a laptop, a mobile phone and two fully-loaded MP3 players, not to mention the halogen light that allowed me to work through the night if I so desired.   I stared disconsolately out over the shimmering tarmac and   wondered if I might be granted permission to shave my legs.

Adding to the danger, Pritchard disregarded Balchen’s advice about the best way to touch down. He hand-cranked the Duck’s landing gear into place, intending to treat the ice cap the same as he would a paved tarmac. It was a calculated risk. A belly-down landing might damage the Duck’s fuselage or curl its propeller, rendering it yet another squished bug on the ice cap. On the other hand, a wheels-down landing could lead to the same result.

Handbrake found the drive to Jaipur that morning particularly frustrating. The new tarmac-surfaced toll road, which was part of India’s proliferating highway system, had four lanes running in both directions, and although it presented all manner of hazards, including the occasional herd of goats, a few overturned trucks and the odd gaping pothole, it held out an irresistible invitation to speed. Indeed, many of the other cars travelled as fast as 100 miles

What became of you, Elizabeth, out there on the road with your son? But what, after all, had become of anyone? His parents, his colleagues, all his friends from his life before the airport, Robert? If all of them had vanished, uncounted and unmarked, why not Elizabeth too? He closed his eyes. Thinking of a boy standing on the tarmac by the ghost plane, Air Gradia Flight 452, Arthur Leander’s beloved only son, reading verses about plagues aloud to the dead.

Tack’s my favorite,” she whispered, and that was when I turned to her. “He’s also mine.” Her catty, knowing smile got bigger, cattier and more knowing. “As you can tell, girl, I don’t mind sharing.” My hand itched to slap her. No, actually, my hand itched to slap someone else. Her, I wanted to know why she did what she did to the sisterhood but worse, what she did to herself. But instead of asking, I again turned my gaze to the tarmac, willing the cab to show the fuck up already.

It’s easy to be deceived into believing that “the more I know the more I am.” I meet many voracious readers with a desire to be brilliant that is often stronger than their desire to practice. We tremble at the thought of being stuck on the tarmac because we know less than the peers we compare ourselves to. This type of thinking lures us into a learning formula that cultivates duplicity. The separation between information and immersion has sundered our rootedness as the people of God.

Christ on a Popsicle stick,” Master Sergeant Antonio Ruiz declared after he had glared at the sixty of us in his recruit platoon, standing (we hoped) more or less at attention on the tarmac of Delta Base’s shuttleport. “We have clearly just lost the battle for the goddamn universe. I look at you people and the words ‘tremendously fucked’ leap right out of my goddamned skull. If you’re the best that the Earth has got to offer, it’s time we bend over and get a tentacle right up the ass.

They looked down on the landscapes of West 1, and then with that last step it was as if somebody had exploded a daisycutter bomb, scything away the greenery for miles around and replacing it with concrete, tarmac and steel, staining the shining river a turbid grey and penning it in with reinforced banks and bridges, all under a grubby, colourless sky. Joshua thought you couldn’t have had a better demonstration of what humanity could do to a world, given a few centuries and a lot of oil to burn.

I agree. We’ll put a few more points under him before the election. I’ll do everything except buy votes.” Andrews smirked. Pensively Andrews turned and gazed across the ramp and the row of sleek orbital shuttles lining the tarmac. The helo rocked back and forth, then lifted off, and the lush Florida greenery soon gave way to flat, swampy terrain. A spectacular array of ancient, decaying launch pads dotted the Atlantic coast far below, each a light circle of overgrown concrete connected to the primary road by a single thin, white driveway.

Ask me if at some point I'll get a husband just because I've lost all my best friends to theirs. Ask me if I used to get jealous watching the boys play football so freely on the tarmac. Ask me if I only picked up a book in the first place so I could raise it across my gaze to block out all the ways I wasn't allowed to run. Ask me if there are people I've lost who I'm still holding auditions to replace, whom I would give up a career to help die, if I ever lose hope or if I hang it on a keychain by the door at night so I can get to it in an emergency.

I would walk round that beautiful, unspoilt little island, with its population of under a hundred and where there isn’t a single tarmac road, thinking about how he would truly sound. Perhaps the quietness of the island helped me do so. ‘Everybody thinks he’s French,’ I said to myself as I walked across the great stones that littered the beach at Rushy Bay, or stomped over the tussocky grass of Heathy Hill, with its famous dwarf pansies. ‘The only reason people think Poirot is French is because of his accent,’ I muttered. ‘But he’s Belgian, and I know that French-speaking Belgians don’t sound French, not a bit of it.’" "I also was well aware of Brian Eastman’s advice to me before I left for Bryher: ‘Don’t forget, he may have an accent, but the audience must be able to understand exactly what he’s saying.’ There was my problem in a nutshell." "To help me, I managed to get hold of a set of Belgian Walloon and French radio recordings from the BBC. Poirot came from Liège in Belgium and would have spoken Belgian French, the language of 30 per cent of the country’s population, rather than Walloon, which is very much closer to the ordinary French language. To these I added recordings of English-language stations broadcasting from Belgium, as well as English-language programmes from Paris. My principal concern was to give my Poirot a voice that would ring true, and which would also be the voice of the man I heard in my head when I read his stories. I listened for hours, and then gradually started mixing Walloon Belgian with French, while at the same time slowly relocating the sound of his voice in my body, moving it from my chest to my head, making it sound a little more high-pitched, and yes, a little more fastidious. After several weeks, I finally began to believe that I’d captured it: this was what Poirot would have sounded like if I’d met him in the flesh. This was how he would have spoken to me – with that characteristic little bow as we shook hands, and that little nod of the head to the left as he removed his perfectly brushed grey Homburg hat. The more I heard his voice in my head, and added to my own list of his personal characteristics, the more determined I became never to compromise in my portrayal of Poirot.

Now that we have someone who can fly the helicopter, this might just work,” I said. “Then let’s get moving!” Mike declared. Alexander raced to the bunk where Catherine was lying and hoisted her onto his shoulder. “Whee!” she yelled. “Piggyback rides for everyone!” Mike helped me lift Erica to her feet. She hooked an arm over each of our shoulders and let us drag her to the door. Zoe and Svetlana joined us as we all hustled out of the bunkhouse and onto the tarmac. Two soldiers were sprawled unconscious by the front door. There was also an unconscious goose nearby.

But I didn’t feel safer. Maybe it had nothing to do with Australia. Maybe it was just because the clock was ticking down on our mission and we were closer to Tuvalu than we’d ever been. Still, I’d noticed that in spite of the stress, I wasn’t ticking as much as usual. Instead of blinking or gulping, I was sparking more. I wondered if it was just because I was becoming more electric or if my Tourette’s was taking a different form. The weather might have had something to do with my anxiety as well. I think I might have a bit of SAD—seasonal affective disorder—which is just an Ostin way of saying I get blue when the skies aren’t blue. And the skies were definitely not blue. I don’t think that I’d ever seen it rain so hard in my life. Not in Idaho, at least. The rain was practically horizontal. It was a challenge getting Zeus off the plane. First, we couldn’t land because the runways were backed up because of lightning striking the tarmac. Then there was no hangar for the plane—so even if we had wanted to make a run for the terminal, Zeus still had to wait for a break in the weather, which, unfortunately, didn’t come until about

Pilgrims from all over the world were making their way to the place deemed the pearl of the Middle East. The city was reminiscent of a modern-day Persepolis. Its buildings, like towering pillars, tested the sky’s limit. The evenly paved roads belched with the smell of new tarmac, as if a million masons woke up every morning and by hand lay asphalt one grain at a time. People of all colors, ethnicities, creed and social statuses came bearing money, knowledge or experience in order to build their legacies in the new kingdom, sprouting out of the desert. Dubai had arrived.

sit on the tarmac, waiting for the plane to take off. Bailey stares out the window. She looks exhausted—her eyes dark and puffy, her skin a splotchy red. She looks exhausted and she looks scared. I haven’t told her everything yet. But she understands enough. She understands enough that I’m not surprised she is scared. I’d be surprised if she weren’t. “They’ll come visit,” I say. “Nicholas and Charlie. They can bring your cousins if you want. I think that would be a nice thing. I think your cousins really want to meet you.” “They won’t stay with us or anything?” she says.

and here instead’s another version of what was happening that morning, as if from a novel in which sophia is the kind of character she’d choose to be, prefer to be, a character in a much more classic sort of story, perfectly honed and comforting, about how sombre yet bright the major-symphony of winter is and how beautiful everything looks under a high frost, how every grassblade is enhanced and silvered into individual beauty by it, how even the dull tarmac of the roads, the paving under our feet, shines when the weather’s been cold enough and how something at the heart of us, at the heart of all our cold and frozen states, melts when we encounter a time of peace on earth, goodwill to all men; a story in which there’s no room for severed heads; a work in which sophia’s perfectly honed minor-symphony modesty and narrative decorum complement the story she’s in with the right kind of quiet wisdom-from-experience ageing-female status, making it a story that’s thoughtful, dignified, conventional in structure thank god, the kind of quality literary fiction where the slow drift of snow across the landscape is merciful, has a perfect muffling decorum of its own, snow falling to whiten, soften, blur and prettify even further a landscape where there are no heads divided from bodies hanging around in the air or anywhere, either new ones, from new atrocities or murders or terrorisms, or old ones, left over from old historic atrocities and murders and terrorisms and bequeathed to the future as if in old french revolution baskets, their wickerwork brown with the old dried blood, placed on the doorsteps of the neat and central-heating-interactive houses of now with notes tied to the handles saying please look after this head thank you, well, no, thank you, thank you very much:

There’s a delay taking off from San Francisco—caused, I’m guessing, by an overburdened airport, but no one will tell us for sure. At times like this, sitting stalled on the tarmac, it’s easy to think apocalyptically—airports at the bursting point, highways clogged with SUVs helmed by citizens in meltdown, smog alerts and gridlocked emergency rooms, corridors lined with the bleeding. When you’re in California this kind of vision explodes into grandiosity, and you imagine the earth ripping apart, spilling all this overconsumption, all the cell phones and seaside villas and hopeful young starlets noisily into the sea. It almost feels like a blessing.

Biden could be much more indignant and profane in private than he appeared in public. One Saturday afternoon during his first year as president, Biden had called a friend from the Oval Office. “I have spent almost five hours going back and forth, back and forth on the phone with two of the biggest fucking assholes in the world—Bibi Netanyahu and Mahmoud Abbas,” he said, referring to the prime minister of Israel and the Palestinian leader. “Two of the biggest fucking assholes in the world,” Biden repeated with emphasis. When Air Force One landed at Ben Gurion Airport the morning of October 18, Netanyahu was waiting for Biden on the tarmac. Biden descended the steps of the plane, aviator

By the time Dimitrov realised what had happened, it was too late. He had taken aim but Bond had already fired. Three bullets spat their ugly farewells, driving into the Russian’s chest and throat. Bond lay on the ground, sodden, his broken rib pounding. The rain beat down on him. A car drove past, spraying more water over him, but the driver noticed nothing and didn’t stop. Eventually, Bond stood up. He slipped the Walther PPK into his pocket and walked over to the dead Russian who was lying on the tarmac in a pool of rainwater and blood. He was still holding his own gun, a 9x18mm Makarov pistol, a sophisticated but ugly weapon used by the Russian army and police. He had come close to firing a second bullet. His finger was still curled around the trigger, already stiffening as his muscles began to contract. Trigger mortis.

Moderns maintain a peculiar relationship with rhetoric. We no longer teach it to our young, nor demand it of our wise. What since ancient Athens was considered an essential skill for a free citizen has now largely been consigned to hucksters and to the tarmacs of used car dealerships. The tragedy is that we abandoned the art on purpose. About the same time the Russians flung Sputnik into space, in the name of progress American, Canadian, and British educators tossed the old grammar and style books onto the intergalactic rubbish heap of history. The past was trashed. In a scientific age, so the reasoning went, questions of philosophy, of beauty, of sex, of God, could be set aside in favor of technological solutions. The science was settled. Just the same, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Who would’ve foreseen that at the same hour the West turned its back on its humanistic traditions, it would be called to police the global order, shore up markets, and shoot down terrorists?

Sarjomdih, which for about sixty years was another nondescript dot on a map. That part of the Chhotanagpur area which is now formally known as the Purbi Singbhum district. Sarjomdih, where most of the population is Santhal and the rest are Munda; all of them are followers of Sarna, the aboriginal faith of the Chhotanagpur area. Saijomdih, which stands atop the mineral-rich core of the Indian subcontinent. Sarjomdih, outside whose southern frontiers a mine and a copper factory were established, where the Copper Town sprang up, and which was now gradually threatening to swallow all of Sarjomdih. Sarjomdih, which bore the repercussions of development, the nationalization of the mine and the factory, the opening up of two more quarries, and the confiscation of the villagers' properties so roads and living quarters could be built. Sarjomdih, whose men were given jobs as unskilled laborers in the mines and the factory in return for their fecund land. Sarjomdih, which is a standing testimony to the collapse of an agrarian Adivasi society and the dilution of Adivasi culture, the twin gifts of industrialization and progress. Sarjomdih, which within sixty years acquired all the signs of urbanity, just like the Copper Town: concrete houses; cable television; two-wheelers; a hand-pump; a narrow, winding tarmac that everyone called the 'main road'; and a primary school...

Shouting didn't help. Kathy keyed her landing skids down and strangled the thruster grips onto full. A flagman on the ground dove sideways. The fighter whizzed past the man's prostrate body, her skids unfolding only feet above his head. She nearly beheaded three others as she scrambled to decrease power to her belly thrusters and fight spinning into a sideways slide. Suddenly a group of people came into view at the edge of the tarmac. “Oh shit!” She killed her belly thrusters completely. The skids hit the cement like a Boeing 747 with no tires. She slammed back into the seat. Metal screeched against cement. Everything shook like a jackhammer. The big Shimeron slued sideways then slammed her into her harness as it lurched to a halt. Every part of her including her hands shook. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her tremors enough to power down. “You did it, O’Donnell,” she said as the gyros whined down in a groan of sympathy. She removed her helmet and pushed back her flight suit hood only to have a pile of sopping wet sparkling hair flop out over her face. She swiped it away and released the canopy. A blast of cool ocean air filled the cockpit. Carefully, she peered over the side of the cockpit. Bodies lay strewn about on the ground. A few prostrate forms moved. Kathy sank down into the seat with a grimace. Great, you just killed your welcoming committee, you twit.

If you wouldn't mind driving my truck across the tarmac,I'd like to unload the medical supplies and deliver them to the clinic on the way to Delia's." "Good idea.Let's kill two birds." Marilee shook her head. "Please.I'd rather not talk about killing any birds." Wyatt paused and touched a hand to her cheek. She felt the heat all the way to her toes. He stared down into her eyes,and his lips curved into a killer smile that had those same toes curling with pleasure. "My fearless,independent adventurer. You handle a plane like you were born with wings.I've watched you patch up battered, bloody cowboys without flinching. But you can't even think about harming a bird." She couldn't say a word.Her throat was dry as dust. With a thoughtful look he rubbed a thumb over her lower lip,then turned away and headed toward her truck. Marilee remained where she was, absorbing the aftershock of his touch. She'd thought he would kiss her.Had wanted him to.Desperately. Instead, all he'd done was touch her.And that had been enough to reduce her to a weak, trembling mass of jelly. She was going to have to do something about these jumbled hormones. She sucked in a deep breath and got to work hauling the cases of medical supplies. By the time Wyatt drove the truck close to the plane,she was in control and able to work alongside him without sighing like a girl with her first crutch. But just barely.

When I woke up a man in a green beret with a big feather poking out of it was leaning over me. I must be hallucinating, I thought. I blinked again but he didn’t go away. Then this immaculate, clipped British accent addressed me. “How are you feeling, soldier?” It was the colonel in charge of British Military Advisory Team (BMAT) in southern Africa. He was here to check on my progress. “We’ll be flying you back to the UK soon,” he said, smiling. “Hang on in there, trooper.” The colonel was exceptionally kind, and I have never forgotten that. He went beyond the call of duty to look out for me and get me repatriated as soon as possible--after all, we were in a country not known for its hospital niceties. The flight to the UK was a bit of a blur, spent sprawled across three seats in the back of a plane. I had been stretchered across the tarmac in the heat of the African sun, feeling desperate and alone. I couldn’t stop crying whenever no one was looking. Look at yourself, Bear. Look at yourself. Yep, you are screwed. And then I zonked out. An ambulance met me at Heathrow, and eventually, at my parents’ insistence, I was driven home. I had nowhere else to go. Both my mum and dad looked exhausted from worry; and on top of my physical pain I also felt gut-wrenchingly guilty for causing such grief to them. None of this was in the game plan for my life. I had been hit hard, broadside and from left field, in a way I could never have imagined. Things like this just didn’t happen to me. I was always the lucky kid. But rogue balls from left field can often be the making of us.

The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows – minor actors almost invisible from the street – made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the Île Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers’ stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch’s spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn’t at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: ‘Monsieur Bouvet!

Stay there,’ said Mathis. He kicked back his chair and hurtled through the empty window-frame on to the pavement. 6 ....... TWO MEN IN STRAW HATS WHEN BOND left the bar he walked purposefully along the pavement flanking the tree-lined boulevard towards his hotel a few hundred yards away. He was hungry. The day was still beautiful, but by now the sun was very hot and the plane-trees, spaced about twenty feet apart on the grass verge between the pavement and the broad tarmac, gave a cool shade. There were few people abroad and the two men standing quietly under a tree on the opposite side of the boulevard looked out of place. Bond noticed them when he was still a hundred yards away and when the same distance separated them from the ornamental ‘porte cochère’ of the Splendide. There was something rather disquieting about their appearance. They were both small and they were dressed alike in dark and, Bond reflected, rather hot-looking suits. They had the appearance of a variety turn waiting for a bus on the way to the theatre. Each wore a straw hat with a thick black ribbon as a concession, perhaps, to the holiday atmosphere of the resort, and the brims of these and the shadow from the tree under which they stood obscured their faces. Incongruously, each dark, squat little figure was illuminated by a touch of bright colour. They were both carrying square camera-cases slung from the shoulder. And one case was bright red and the other case bright blue. By the time Bond had taken in these details, he had come to within fifty yards of the two men. He was reflecting on the ranges of various types of weapon and the possibilities of cover when an extraordinary and terrible scene was enacted.

As an experiment, I tweaked the questions using Kelly’s “Did I do my best to” formulation. • Did I do my best to be happy? • Did I do my best to find meaning? • Did I do my best to have a healthy diet? • Did I do my best to be a good husband? Suddenly, I wasn’t being asked how well I performed but rather how much I tried. The distinction was meaningful to me because in my original formulation, if I wasn’t happy or I ignored Lyda, I could always blame it on some factor outside myself. I could tell myself I wasn’t happy because the airline kept me on the tarmac for three hours (in other words, the airline was responsible for my happiness). Or I overate because a client took me to his favorite barbecue joint, where the food was abundant, caloric, and irresistible (in other words, my client—or was it the restaurant?—was responsible for controlling my appetite). Adding the words “did I do my best” added the element of trying into the equation. It injected personal ownership and responsibility into my question-and-answer process. After a few weeks using this checklist, I noticed an unintended consequence. Active questions themselves didn’t merely elicit an answer. They created a different level of engagement with my goals. To give an accurate accounting of my effort, I couldn’t simply answer yes or no or “30 minutes.” I had to rethink how I phrased my answers. For one thing, I had to measure my effort. And to make it meaningful—that is, to see if I was trending positively, actually making progress—I had to measure on a relative scale, comparing the most recent day’s effort with previous days. I chose to grade myself on a 1-to-10 scale, with 10 being the best score. If I scored low on trying to be happy, I had only myself to blame. We may not hit our goals every time, but there’s no excuse for not trying. Anyone can try.

the greatest inspiration for institutional change in American law enforcement came on an airport tarmac in Jacksonville, Florida, on October 4, 1971. The United States was experiencing an epidemic of airline hijackings at the time; there were five in one three-day period in 1970. It was in that charged atmosphere that an unhinged man named George Giffe Jr. hijacked a chartered plane out of Nashville, Tennessee, planning to head to the Bahamas. By the time the incident was over, Giffe had murdered two hostages—his estranged wife and the pilot—and killed himself to boot. But this time the blame didn’t fall on the hijacker; instead, it fell squarely on the FBI. Two hostages had managed to convince Giffe to let them go on the tarmac in Jacksonville, where they’d stopped to refuel. But the agents had gotten impatient and shot out the engine. And that had pushed Giffe to the nuclear option. In fact, the blame placed on the FBI was so strong that when the pilot’s wife and Giffe’s daughter filed a wrongful death suit alleging FBI negligence, the courts agreed. In the landmark Downs v. United States decision of 1975, the U.S. Court of Appeals wrote that “there was a better suited alternative to protecting the hostages’ well-being,” and said that the FBI had turned “what had been a successful ‘waiting game,’ during which two persons safely left the plane, into a ‘shooting match’ that left three persons dead.” The court concluded that “a reasonable attempt at negotiations must be made prior to a tactical intervention.” The Downs hijacking case came to epitomize everything not to do in a crisis situation, and inspired the development of today’s theories, training, and techniques for hostage negotiations. Soon after the Giffe tragedy, the New York City Police Department (NYPD) became the first police force in the country to put together a dedicated team of specialists to design a process and handle crisis negotiations. The FBI and others followed. A new era of negotiation had begun. HEART

In the shock of the moment, I gave some thought to renting a convertible and driving the twenty-seven hundred miles back alone. But then I realized I was neither single nor crazy. The acting director decided that, given the FBI’s continuing responsibility for my safety, the best course was to take me back on the plane I came on, with a security detail and a flight crew who had to return to Washington anyway. We got in the vehicle to head for the airport. News helicopters tracked our journey from the L.A. FBI office to the airport. As we rolled slowly in L.A. traffic, I looked to my right. In the car next to us, a man was driving while watching an aerial news feed of us on his mobile device. He turned, smiled at me through his open window, and gave me a thumbs-up. I’m not sure how he was holding the wheel. As we always did, we pulled onto the airport tarmac with a police escort and stopped at the stairs of the FBI plane. My usual practice was to go thank the officers who had escorted us, but I was so numb and distracted that I almost forgot to do it. My special assistant, Josh Campbell, as he often did, saw what I couldn’t. He nudged me and told me to go thank the cops. I did, shaking each hand, and then bounded up the airplane stairs. I couldn’t look at the pilots or my security team for fear that I might get emotional. They were quiet. The helicopters then broadcast our plane’s taxi and takeoff. Those images were all over the news. President Trump, who apparently watches quite a bit of TV at the White House, saw those images of me thanking the cops and flying away. They infuriated him. Early the next morning, he called McCabe and told him he wanted an investigation into how I had been allowed to use the FBI plane to return from California. McCabe replied that he could look into how I had been allowed to fly back to Washington, but that he didn’t need to. He had authorized it, McCabe told the president. The plane had to come back, the security detail had to come back, and the FBI was obligated to return me safely. The president exploded. He ordered that I was not to be allowed back on FBI property again, ever. My former staff boxed up my belongings as if I had died and delivered them to my home. The order kept me from seeing and offering some measure of closure to the people of the FBI, with whom I had become very close. Trump had done a lot of yelling during the campaign about McCabe and his former candidate wife. He had been fixated on it ever since. Still in a fury at McCabe, Trump then asked him, “Your wife lost her election in Virginia, didn’t she?” “Yes, she did,” Andy replied. The president of the United States then said to the acting director of the FBI, “Ask her how it feels to be a loser” and hung up the phone.

Less amusing was an interview in which Billy Shaheen, the co-chair of Clinton’s campaign in New Hampshire, suggested to a reporter that my self-disclosed prior drug use would prove fatal in a matchup against the Republican nominee. I didn’t consider the general question of my youthful indiscretions out of bounds, but Shaheen went a bit further, implying that perhaps I had dealt drugs as well. The interview set off a furor, and Shaheen quickly resigned from his post. All this happened just ahead of our final debate in Iowa. That morning, both Hillary and I were in Washington for a Senate vote. When my team and I got to the airport for the flight to Des Moines, Hillary’s chartered plane turned out to be parked right next to ours. Before takeoff, Huma Abedin, Hillary’s aide, found Reggie and let him know that the senator was hoping to speak to me. I met Hillary on the tarmac, Reggie and Huma hovering a few paces away. Hillary apologized for Shaheen. I thanked her and then suggested we both do a better job of reining in our surrogates. At this, Hillary got agitated, her voice sharpening as she claimed that my team was routinely engaging in unfair attacks, distortions, and underhanded tactics. My efforts at lowering the temperature were unsuccessful, and the conversation ended abruptly, with her still visibly angry as she boarded her plane.

Vandemeer stared at the airplane on the tarmac. What the hell was she doing? The Alaska Airlines flight was taking off in twenty minutes, and she was actually going to be on it.

Also not surprising: He had fallen hard for Laszlo. He loved those walks, especially the one where he’d come through the door at the end of the day and Laszlo would greet him like a released POW on a tarmac—every day, without fail—and she’d drag him enthusiastically to the park as though she’d never been there before.

Renee turns back.. watching.. as the plane descends... and lands not with a fireball but with the dull thud of tires on tarmac, the earth insisting that Renee spend another day on its surface.

Sampat lies on the ground, eyes looking up to Ti Kong, the God of Heaven. The God who watches, who blesses, who curses. A streak of red drool, dark maroon, the colour of blood, pools on the grey tarmac... His heart has stopped but he doesn't know it yet.

Cody couldn’t bring himself to actually look directly at the main building. Where it happened. He’d gone through that front gate every school day for years. Knew every nook and cranny, every single classroom, every broom closet and every air duct intimately. Every crack in the tarmac, every water fountain, each and every bank of lockers and all the boys’ bathrooms. But he couldn’t look directly at the familiar brick building. He observed it the way you do an eclipse, out of the corner of a half-lidded eye.

When the time came for Snake to leave, Sunny stood at the edge of the cargo bay, waved goodbye, and called out, “S-see you, Snake!” Snake returned a smile. He would be gone for at least several days—several days without having to endure her fried eggs. I looked at Sunny, watching Snake reach the edge of the tarmac, and I thought, We’re something like a family, aren’t we.

There is a change in the air. Early morning, when I open the back door, it billows into the kitchen, crisp, cold, and fresh as mint. It makes white clouds of my breath. Winter has decorated ordinary life. Some days everything sparkles, glamorising the lids of bins and the tarmac patchwork of the pavements. Frost etches mysterious patterns on the roof of our car, and the puddles that collect in the gutter are crisp with ice.

Walt Disney World once had its own airport with a singing runway (Lake Buena Vista STOLPort runway). Grooves in the tarmac were spaced so the lines played the opening notes of "When You Wish Upon a Star". The airport closed in 1972.

The rain grows thunderous in volume and they both look out as the water comes to boil on the tarmac.

Its suspension whirled them with oily ease across the pitted and weedy tarmac.

Here is what I learn about walking. Walking, like running, is about finding a pace. Stride out too quickly and you soon tire and become disheartened. Stroll too slowly and the journey can sit heavy in the bowl of your stomach. It is not passing across a landscape. Instead, it is feeling the landscape pass under you, as if the pushing of your feet into the ground turns the Earth further away from you, like balancing on a giant ball. You do not walk with your feet. You walk with your boots. Bad boots make the walking harder. When you walk, you notice the details. You notice the colours and shapes and precise movements of everything around you, from blades of grass to birds to creatures scurrying through the undergrowth. It is a way of becoming intimate with the landscape. Walking on flat roads is too easy. It lets you think too much. Walking over uneven rocky ground is a way to escape from the mind. Wet shoes weigh you down. Walking on a full stomach is like a sickness. Walking on an empty stomach is worse. Footsteps do not make a noise at the point where your boots hit the tarmac. They also sound in your head. They echo like an organ note in a cathedral. Even when your body sweats, the ends of your fingers are still cold. Feet can be hot and cold at the same time.

tarmac only slightly cracked, at other times the tarmac was broken and fractured by the plants growing through. But on the road went, narrowing slightly. He could feel the change in the air, smelling the sea breeze, the scent of salt on his face. It was fresher up here, away from the perfume of the trees and the winter undergrowth, the bare

Through the window she saw a couple lying on a sofa watching an old movie, limbs entangled. Next door, six young friends were still at lunch, three empty bottles of wine and dirty plates pushed away, laughing at a shared memory or an odd remark. How did people get together, create unions, and fall in love? Had she lost the ability to connect with others? Was loneliness going to be her constant friend and lover? Could she make a life with it? She walked on through the market, empty now apart from a fox foraging among the discarded crates and unwanted food smeared by footprints into the tarmac. Annie walked briskly towards the river in search of a breeze.

What is that?” She pointed at the private jet waiting on the tarmac like she’d spotted a cockroach.

Ankled, banjaxed, bladdered bleezin’ Why? Do I really need a reason? I’m cabbaged clobbered, Chevy Chased But not a broken vein upon my face Despite being thoroughly Dot Cottoned Sobriety almost forgotten I’m etched – egregiously and completely That creme de menthe went down so sweetly So now, I’m fleemered and I’m flecked So many snifters have been necked That guttered, sweaty, ganted, howling I’m wearing shirts made out of towelling Inebriated, kaed up, jaxied I’ve been ill in every single taxi In every city kiboshed, kaned Bernhard Langered, legless, debrained Dhuisg, it is in Gaelic, mottled (I must recycle all my bottles) I’m Newcastled, out of my tree There’s really not much wrong with me On the skite, overly refreshed I swear I’d still pass my driving “tesht” For drink improves pronounciation Adds sparkle to enunciation Predicting earthquakes, kissing pavements Quite quoited, rubbered, I’ve made arrangements To remain forever snobbled Sleeping on tarmac or on cobbles Thora Hirded, trousered, trashed I’ve spent great lakes of liquid cash Unca’ fou, marocced, it’s easy Discombobulated, queasy My wobbly boots are on, I’m wellied But only very slightly smelly Xenophoned, Yorkshired as a skunk Zombied But not even slightly drunk.

Marj was one step ahead of him. Before he sank into depression over the situation, she reminded him he was an army veteran and, as such, he could get treatment at any army hospital free of charge. There was a large military hospital at the United States base in Panama, and Marj had already made arrangements for Nate to be flown there. The U.S. military had a cargo plane stationed in Quito that would ferry Nate to the hospital in Panama for treatment. Because Marj’s pregnancy was too far advanced for her to travel, she would stay in Quito and have the baby. With a cast covering half his body, Nate looked like a mummy as he was carried on a stretcher to the military transport plane. As he crossed the tarmac to the plane, he caught a glimpse of the yellow Stinson, which lay in a crumpled heap in front of a hangar where it had been dragged. The fuselage was broken in half, and the engine and landing gear had been ripped right off the plane. As he looked at the wreckage, Nate knew it was a blessing that he was alive. On the flight to Panama, Nate had to stay lying on his back on the stretcher, since his cast didn’t bend at the waist. He passed the time counting the number of rivets in the bulkhead.

One of their biggest challenges was the cartoonish public image of Gerald Ford. Arriving in Austria for a state visit, Ford had slipped on the rain-soaked steps of Air Force One and fallen in a heap on the tarmac; ever since, he had been skewered mercilessly on a new television program, Saturday Night Live. Ford had been an All-American football player at Michigan; but in the public mind, he was a pratfalling clown who, reaching for the phone, would staple his ear to his head. The president’s homespun amiability was interpreted as stupidity; he could not “walk and chew gum at the same time.” Lyndon Johnson quipped that he had played too much football without a helmet.

I glance at the rearview mirror to find the road empty, save for a glowing horseman. And he’s galloping toward me, a foot above the tarmac.

It was a Land Rover, so mucky and bashed that it was impossible to make out the original colour, and there was a woman at the wheel. He got out of his car to tell her that she was on the wrong road and this was a dead-end, and anyway she wouldn’t get past him here, but she stopped and got out. He wondered how her knees managed the weight of her on the deep step down to the tarmac. She was big. No beauty. Bad skin and bad clothes, but lovely eyes. Brown like conkers.

As he stood there the cloudy day darkened even more, the air felt heavier, the gunmetal gray sky suddenly hung low and oppressive, as if all the possibilities of life had been squeezed down to this hundred-yard stretch of hot tarmac between himself and the plane. From

The Coeur d’Alene Airport was a sleepy little airfield with three paved runways laid out in a standard triangle configuration. Two small FBOs (fixed base operators) on the field rented airplanes and offered instruction. I felt a little discouraged upon seeing the dilapidated condition of the buildings at both of these businesses. It appeared they were both operating on a shoestring budget—just as Martha and I were at the time. The airport had no air terminal or commercial airline service. I was nevertheless hoping I would at least see a little airplane taxiing, taking off, or landing that day, but there was no activity whatsoever. It was exciting, though, for me to just see a number of single-engine private aircraft tied down on the tarmac as I imagined myself climbing into one, taxiing out, and taking off.

At last count, eight-hundred and fifty-nine travelers had stepped off Trans-Continental Airlines at Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix, Arizona, at high noon in Mid-August without sunglasses. No one has ever done it twice. The desert sun, at high noon in Mid-August, rains down a torrent of silver needles. The sky burns white. The mountains that ring the city - Maricopas, White Tanks, Superstitions - flatten into dusty, two-dimensional mounds. Desert plants turn pale. Crawling, slithering, running creatures surrender to the heat and hide. The air shimmers on the horizon and flows in sluggish currents along the airport tarmac. Tires go soft. The odor of melting tar lies heavy along the ground. Light explodes in tinsel stars from moving glass and chrome. Phoenicians huddle indoors around their air conditioners and wait for the time of long shadows. Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix, Arizona, at high noon in mid-August is a white-hot Hell.

His brother Najib owned an auto-parts store at bustling Shikarpur Gate, the mouth of the narrow road linking their village to the city—an ancient byway that had once led southward through the passes all the way to India. At dusk it is clogged with a riot of vegetable sellers’ handcarts beset by shoppers, Toyota pickup trucks, horse-drawn taxis, and three-wheeled rickshaws clambering around and through the throng like gaudy dung beetles. Nurallah’s brother Najib had gone to Chaman, just across the border in Pakistan, where the streets are lined with cargo containers serving as shops, and used motor oil cements the dust to the ground in a glossy tarmac, and every variety of automotive organ or sinew is laid bare, spread out, and strung up for sale. He had made his purchases and set off back to Kandahar. “He paid his customs dues”—Nurallah emphasized the remarkable point—“because that’s the law. He paid at every checkpoint on the way back, fifty afghanis, a hundred afghanis.” A dollar or two every time an unkempt, underage police boy in green fatigues slouched out of a sandbagged lean-to into the middle of the road—eight times in the sixty-six miles when last I counted. “And then when he reached the entrance to town, the police there wanted five hundred afghanis. Five hundred!” A double arch marks the place where the road that swoops down from Kabul joins the road leading in from Pakistan. The police range from one side to the other, like spear fishermen hunting trout in a narrows. “He refused,” Nurallah continued. “He said he had paid his customs dues—he showed them the receipt. He said he had paid the bribes at every checkpoint all along the way, and he was not paying again.” I waited a beat. “So what happened?” “They reached into his window and smacked him.” “They hit him?” I was shocked. Najib might be a sunny guy, but Kandahar tempers are strung on tripwires. For a second I thought we’d have to go bail him out. “What did he do?” Nurallah’s eyes, beneath his widow’s peak, were banked and smoldering. “What could he do? He paid the money. But then he pulled over to the side of the road and called me. I told him to stay right there. And I called Police Chief Matiullah Qatih, to report the officer who was taking the bribes.” And Matiullah had scoffed at him: Did he die of it? The police buzzards had seen Najib make the call. They had descended on him, snatched the phone out of his hand, and smashed it. “You call that law?” Now Nurallah was ablaze. “They’re the police! They should be showing people what the law is; they should be enforcing the law. And they’re the ones breaking it.” Nurallah was once a police officer himself. He left the force the day his own boss, Kabul police chief Zabit Akrem, was assassinated in that blast in the mosque in 2005.1 Yet so stout was Nurallah’s pride in his former profession that he brought his dark green uniform into work and kept it there, hung neatly on a hook in his locker. “My sacred oath,” he vowed, concluding: “If I see someone planting an IED on a road, and then I see a police truck coming, I will turn away. I will not warn them.” I caught my breath. So maybe he didn’t mean it literally. Maybe Nurallah wouldn’t actually connive with the Taliban. Still, if a former police officer like him was even mouthing such thoughts, then others were acting on them. Afghan government corruption was manufacturing Taliban.

She even managed to avoid various and sundry bits of animal husbandry that seemed to find warm, fallish tarmac to be to their liking. She’d never thought of sheep as a road hazard, but there you had it. When in Scotland, look out for white, fuzzy impediments to your journey.

Solaris Sweat trickled down my back, sending an icy chill up my spine. Winter was definitely coming. I ignored the cold and focused on the smack of my vintage Converse on the tarmac. I was almost there. The airplane hangar was like a beacon in the darkness, the shiny white metal brilliant against the backdrop of night. The red and white flag on its domed roof flapped furiously in the wind, an ominous reminder of where I was. Tires squealed just behind me, and I dove behind a stack of wooden crates. My breath came hard and fast. Now that my footfalls weren’t drowning out the sound, my panting

night and Maggie Taylor waited inside the glass doors, peering out into the night. She glanced over her shoulder, watching in vain to see if the red light above the lift would change and begin to count down. Maybe the doors would slide open to reveal another late worker, someone who would be happy to walk with Maggie through the deserted car park –a vast empty stretch of dark tarmac leading into the distance, her lone car sitting waiting for her somewhere out of sight. The weather warnings had provided the perfect excuse for people to leave early, though, and she was sure nobody would be coming to her rescue. She could kick herself for staying so late, knowing there was nothing that made her more anxious than a large empty building that seemed to echo with silence.

tarmac

I stumble across the sea of tarmac, finding pavement, concealment and a brick wall. Palms brace against the scrubby surface. My stomach churns and then bubbles over, burning my throat as acrid yellow acid spills from my lips in frothy discomposure. It splatters the pavement like a spray of blood.

Chavez Ravine is a broad flat bowl surrounded by low mountains that wall the stadium from the city. Dodger Stadium sits in the center of the bowl, surrounded by black tarmac parking lots like some kind of alien spacecraft resting alone on its launching pad. All you’d need was a big shiny robot, and you’d think Michael Rennie had come back to Earth.

As first lady, she claimed to know nothing about the Travelgate firings when the evidence showed she ordered them herself. Later, on the 2008 campaign trail, she repeatedly told a story about how she had been under sniper fire and ran for cover when her plane landed in Tuzla, Bosnia. Video footage, however, showed there was no sniper fire and in fact Hillary was greeted on the tarmac by a child who read her a poem. She blamed the Benghazi attacks on an Internet video when she knew that was a fable. This is a highly abbreviated list.

The airport was small by most U.S. standards, with an old metal-and-glass framed terminal building standing alone on the very far side of the tarmac.  As Clay and Caesare approached, a dark green Humvee suddenly rounded the corner of the building and sped toward them, almost skidding to a stop. A

That combination, perhaps, deterred me from telling Netanyahu the most difficult truth of all. Simply: that he had much in common with Obama. Both men were left-handed, both believed in the power of oratory and that they were the smartest men in the room. Both were loners, adverse to hasty decision making and susceptible to a strong woman’s advice. And both saw themselves in transformative historical roles. Their similarities, perhaps as much as their differences, heightened the chances for friction between the president and Netanyahu, I could have told him. But I did not. Rather, as the prime minister descended the stairs to the tarmac that early May 20 morning, I merely said, “Welcome to Washington, sir,” and extended my hand. This he gripped and pulled me toward him. With his eyes still flaring, he recalled the cable I sent him months back predicting the president’s speech. “You called it right,” he whispered.

where darkness blanketed the tarmac. Floodlights illuminated snow streaming

The bird rocked free from its blocks and carried them down the tarmac, away from their homes and families and dogs and cats and to a land that didn’t want them.

The raindrops were champagne bubbles bursting on her skin. The iridescent spills of fuel oil on the wet tarmac of road were tiny proofs of the covenant. She supposed she must be in love.

Before she could protest, Baird swung her up into his arms and rose in one smooth motion, as though she didn’t weigh a thing. “Hey, I can walk you know!” She wanted to struggle in his arms but the ground was suddenly a long way down and she had no desire to fall on her ass on the tarmac. “No you can’t. You’re injured.

Malcolm… what’s he going to do with them?” Malcolm turned back. “Hmm?” “The lawn shears. Why does he want to borrow them?” We both looked over the hedge at the smooth black tarmac that covered the whole of Steve and Ingrid’s front garden. “He doesn’t have any lawn,” I said. Malcolm’s mouth made a few different shapes, but no words managed to find their way out of it.

A Sad Child You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget. Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child. My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside your head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.

Jamie arched an eyebrow, deconstructing the situation.  He was headed to work by the look of him, and judging from the direction he came from, he lived on the upmarket residential street that this one intersected. Homeless shelters often drove house prices down, and someone dressed like him would be a prime target for begging. And he’d obviously experienced enough of it to not even want to look at them as he passed. Roper wasn’t so understanding and inhaled hard to shout after him, coughing hoarsely as he did, unable to catch his breath. ‘Roper,’ Jamie said quickly, moving towards him, shaking her head. ‘Don’t.’ Roper leaned forward, reddening, then hawked and spat a chunk of brown phlegm onto the tarmac. He stood up then, hands on his hips, forehead creased, a vein bulging in his temple. ‘Why not?’ he squeezed out. ‘You heard what he said. You think that’s a coincidence?’ Jamie looked after him.

Look up on a coudless night and you might see the light from a star thousands of trillions on miles away, or pick out the craters left by asteroid strikes on the moon's face. Look down and your sight stops at topsoil, tarmac, toe.

This, I thought, was being human. Standing on the tarmac, watching mortals load the body of a friend and hero into the cargo hold, knowing that he would never be coming back. Saying goodbye to a grieving young woman who had done everything to help us, and knowing you could never repay her, never compensate her for all that she'd lost.

It’s a favourite sensation of his, the transition from smooth interminable tarmac to the jittery crunch of a gravel drive. It’s like the world suddenly becomes an intimate place again.

Experience had taught him how to keep breathing and retain a steady hand while executing the precise movements required to remove the detonator from one of those great big UXBs—unexploded bombs. He explained to Rose that the Germans deliberately made a lot of bombs so they didn’t explode when they landed, because they knew the strain of having a UXB in the street, its menacing tail fins sticking out of the tarmac, would cause the British people to get nervy. It was all to undermine morale.

Priming that fear engine was key to the campaign’s success. And that meant the internet. The internet—the saying went that a lie traveled halfway around the world by the time the truth got its pants on, and the internet only made that faster. The internet gave wings to every lie, while the truth was stuck on the tarmac.

He sensed someone to his left, standing on the tarmac,

people basically arrived and laid a carpet of tarmac and trash over the top of a beautiful but somewhat surprised natural world.

I feel the wheels hit the tarmac, and a slight sense of relief washes over me at being back in Boston.

Then he froze. There, parked on the tarmac, was Diogenes’s Challenger. “Stop,” he told Shapely. “But—” “Just stop.” Diogenes reached into his bag, pulled out another few stacks of hundred-

American Airlines Customer Service Number-+1-855-653-5006 American Airlines Customer Service Number We also have plans for all airports we regularly serve (including our designated diversion airports) to make reasonable efforts to share facilities and gates with other carriers in an emergency and during irregular operations such as extreme weather. Gates would be made available in accordance with established operational priorities (i.e. medical emergencies, maintenance concerns) and local gate compatibility constraints. If a gate is not available and deplaning is necessary, other equipment such as air stairs will be made available to deplane passengers. Unless otherwise noted, marketed international and/or codeshare flights (AA flight number operated by another carrier) follow their own tarmac delay contingency plan. This contingency plan is explicitly separate from and not a part of these carriers' contract of carriage.

I had a gut feeling that this might be one of those cases we were waiting for. I immediately made the necessary arrangements and less than ninety minutes later a private jet was waiting on the tarmac at McCarran Airport to whisk us to northern Utah. No other group of scientists investigating the paranormal had a private jet at their disposal. Most of them couldn’t even afford to rent a car for the weekend.

Bye, Maggie.’ I pulled his hand from my hair and kissed his palm. I couldn't bear to look at his face. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered. Then I spun and raced for the car. The door on the passenger side was open and waiting. I threw my backpack over the headrest and slid in, slamming the door behind me. ‘Take care of Mr. Anderson!’ I turned to shout out the window, but Marcel was nowhere in sight. As Olivia stomped on the gas and with the tires screeching like human screams-spun us around to face the road, I caught sight of a shred of white near the edge of the trees. A piece of a shoe. HATE- WE MADE OUR FLIGHT WITH SECONDS TO SPARE, AND THEN the true torture began. The plane sat idle on the tarmac while the flight attendants strolling-so casually- up and down the aisle, patting the bags in the overhead compartments to make sure everything fit. The pilots leaned out of the cockpit, chatting with them as they passed. Olivia's hand was hard on my shoulder, holding me in my seat while I bounced anxiously up and down. ‘It's faster than running,’ she reminded me in a muffled voice. I just nodded in time with my bouncing.

He sighed. All good intentions aside, sometimes he wondered, who am I kidding? Because sometimes he wondered if what was really driving him was guilt; guilt for walking away that November morning, through the acrid smell of burning fuel and the burning rubber smell from the bombed-out Jeeps; for looking at his hands and counting his fingers while the smell of the moist earth ejected by exploding Viet Cong shells mingled with the stench of burning flesh; and most of all, for being able to walk at all and for being able to see, smell and experience the nightmares that still haunted him nightly and the visions that still came during the day. He was guilty for feeling relief— relief that it was not his mangled body lying half-in and half-out of the blackened shell of a burned-out military vehicle; it wasn’t his headless torso next to a crater; and, it wasn’t his body zipped into one of the dark plastic body bags that lined the edge of the tarmac, waiting for pickup and removal by the C-130 transports the day he went home.

you’ve fallen for this man, so hard, so deep, it’s like falling off a building and punching a hole through the tarmac to the hidden black caverns of trust, pain, and fear beneath.

President Dwight Eisenhower was more concerned with America’s strategic interests in the Cold War than with political point scoring. Dhahran was the only US Air Force base in the region capable of supporting strategic B-29 bombers, and had thus become an important Cold War asset on the southern flank of the Soviet Union. In 1957, Dhahran was every bit as important to American security as the sprawling Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar is today. So, instead of shunning King Saud, President Eisenhower met him on the tarmac at National Airport, something he had never before done for any foreign leader. Eisenhower then arranged for the king’s route from the airport to be lined with military troops and bands. In return for a large American loan and additional military training, King Saud renewed the Dhahran basing rights free of charge.

There is something magic about takeoffs. I know people who are afraid of flying who say that the takeoffs and landings are the only hard parts, perhaps because that’s when the act of flying is most apparent. I love the way you get pushed back into your seat. The weight and the sense of momentum press against you and the vibrations from the tarmac hum through the yoke and into your palms and legs. Then, suddenly, everything stops and the ground drops away. It

Suddenly the faith of her childhood struck her as comical: the idea that hell boiled away under the tarmac and pavements of Beechwood Avenue, that if she put her ear to the carpet she'd hear the ringing of pitchforks forged on devils' anvils, the hissing of embers on penitent flesh - how ridiculous it was, how evidently only nightmares to frighten children!

There was one day in particular, on the road to La Honda from Alice’s Restaurant, when everything came together exquisitely. It was a slalom through the redwoods, dappled sunlight playing on perfect black tarmac as I came hard out of a corner, front wheel lifting off the ground. On this stretch of road, there are several serpentine sections where you can see, in a single take, a series of three corners ahead in their entirety, with nowhere for surprises to hide. These chicanes have a bodily rhythm to them that is sublime, when taken at speed. I have never been a good athlete, and can only admire those who move with natural grace. But on a sport bike on a canyon road, for a brief spell I feel raised up from my God-given mediocrity. By a machine! What a miracle.

Waves of heat shimmy off the tarmac, and the air is stiflingly hot, with humidity that’s even worse

He turned to face the window again, the door closing softly behind him. He gazed through the cloud of cigar smoke, through his pensive reflection and out into the darkness beyond. Traffic streamed along Millbank on the other side of the river, tail lights leaving a red smear across the tarmac. He thought of Milton.

The El Al stewardesses pin their little hats on with one hand, using the other to hold back the crush of bodies in the aisle. Children wail and adults shove and bags rain from the overhead bins. Fourteen hours in the air, and Barbara hasn’t slept one second. Dazed, dehydrated, she clings to Frayda’s sleeve, and together they inch toward the exit. When they finally step out, they’re hit with a blast of heat and light. Barbara hesitates at the top of the steps, blinking, and receives a swift elbow to the back from the octogenarian behind her. Nu! She stumbles her way down to the tarmac. The welcome committee consists of a pair of rust-bucket minibuses belching exhaust. A few people have already climbed aboard and are tapping their feet impatiently, waiting to be driven to the arrival terminal. Many more of the passengers have fallen to their hands and knees, pressing their lips to the cracked, oil-stained ground. They weep and chant prayers of thanksgiving. Bless you, Lord, our God, Ruler of the universe, Who has given us life, and sustained us, and enabled us to reach this moment. Frayda drops to her knees. Barbara shakily sinks down beside her. Gravel bites into the flesh of her palms. She kisses the earth. Her first impression of the land of Israel, ancestral home of her people, will always be smarting hands, the astringent stink of jet fuel, sacred dust coating her tongue.

The Project Elects assured us that dropping the monkey into the volcano was important. They scribbled impatiently on the blackboard in the demonstration room. They drew a picture of the monkey peeking out of the capsule’s small window and smiling. They drew themselves standing on the tarmac and smiling. They drew a picture of us having wild sex with each other in the locker room and smiling. Look, they said, everybody’s happy. And if our own happiness wasn’t enough to make us put the monkey in the capsule, they reminded us that we were replaceable, that we were, in fact, desirable only in the sense that we were so totally capable of being replaced, that we were all a bunch of yo-yos, that we were lucky to know there even was a monkey.

The Eccentric Earl Great Scotland Yard behind us was the site of the old Scottish embassy and still has a theoretical claim to be considered Scottish territory. This corner of Horse Guards Avenue just past the St Margaret’s boundary mark is really Scottish because we are walking on Scottish soil (though it is covered by English tarmac). In 1760, this site was bought by the Earl of Fife for his London house. The Jacobite Rising had taken place only fifteen years before and, as a result of the repressive measures taken after Culloden, the Earl had developed a deep hatred of England and the English. To avoid suspicion of disloyalty, he had to attend the House of Lords but resolved not to tread on English soil unless he had to. He ordered a shipload of soil and gravel to be sent to London, covered this area with it and had a house built on top. When it was completed he came down by sea, landed at the jetty and, except for his compulsory attendance at the House of Lords, spent his entire time in London here – on Scottish soil.

I fumbled with their tack and harness. I found an abandoned dagger on the tarmac and cut away the barbed wire and spiked cuffs that had been digging into the animals' flesh. I carefully avoided their hooves in case they decided I was worth a kick in the head. Then I started humming Dean Martin's 'Ain't That a Kick in the Head', because that's just the kind of awful week I was having.

Troy liked to describe himself as “the realist.” Refugee resettlement work attracted idealists who wanted to make the world a better place, but the job of a case manager was to be unabashedly pragmatic, as Troy saw it. You had to make a refugee’s dreams conform to the day- to- day reality of living in the United States, at the bottommost rung of the socioeconomic ladder. Prospective employers might be reluctant to hire people who spoke foreign languages, and the skills that refugees arrived with sometimes had no utility in the developed world. The streets of America were paved, but just with tarmac. You had to break it to the refugees gently, but they had to get the point, fast: They must surrender the vain illusion that from this point forward everything would be easy. Not at all. Everything was going to be brutally hard. It would be tough to find a decent place to live that they could afford; it would be difficult to find any kind of job, let alone one they might enjoy; learning English would be mind- bogglingly frustrating. Plus, nobody in this country would understand their story. They would feel so unrecognized, they might as well have become ghosts.

Sweat trickled down my back, sending an icy chill up my spine. Winter was definitely coming. I ignored the cold and focused on the smack of my vintage Converse on the tarmac. I was almost there. The airplane hangar was like a beacon in the darkness, the shiny white metal brilliant against the backdrop of night. The red and white flag on its domed roof flapped furiously in the wind, an ominous

You told me your story so I could stop you if you ever did something crazy. Well, Tara, this is it. This is crazy. I can still fix this, I chanted as the plane lifted off the tarmac.

The shimmering tarmac of the deserted basketball court, a line of industrial-sized garbage cans, and beyond the electrified perimeter fence a vista that twangs a country and western chord of self-pity in me. For a brief moment, when I first arrived, I thought of putting a photo of Alex - Laughing Alpha Male at Roulette Wheel - next to my computer, alongside my family collection: Late Mother Squinting Into Sun on Pebbled Beach, Brother Pierre with Postpartum Wife and Male Twins, and Compos Mentis Father Fighting Daily Telegraph Crossword. But I stopped myself. Why give myself a daily reminder of what I have in every other way laid to rest? Besides, there would be curiosity from colleagues, and my responses to their questions would seem either morbid or tasteless or brutal depending on the pitch and role of my mood. Memories of my past existence, and the future that came with it, can start as benign, Vaselined nostalgia vignettes. But they’ll quickly ghost train into Malevolent noir shorts backlit by that great worst enemy of all victims of circumstance, hindsight. So for the sake of my own sanity, I apologize silently to Alex before burying him in the desk alongside my emergency bottle of Lauphroaig and a little homemade flower press given to me by a former patient who hanged himself with a clothesline. The happy drawer.

I could feel the overwhelming heat and humidity pour through the open door before I even walked out onto the steps that had been rolled up to the airplane door. What happened next was staggering and quite intimidating. What passed as soldiers came up to the bottom of ladder and pointed their automatic weapons at the passengers. Ignoring the protests of airport officials, the passengers were herded by these heavily armed ragtag soldiers of the Liberian Security Forces, across the tarmac to a small arrival building, having an attached control tower. This was the terminal, administrative building and gateway to Liberia all in one. Autocratic officials, wearing torn military type uniforms sat at small wooden desks, pompously asking questions, taking money and stamping papers. Soldiers equally ill attired, opened suitcases and bags, roughly tearing through them and lifting the contents with the bayonets of their rifles. Brazenly and without offering any explanation they confiscated any personal articles that attracted their attention. Fortunately I didn’t have anything other than a bottle of aftershave, but I could see a woman that was pleading for the return of her wedding ring. After much palaver and the intervention of an officer did the soldier returned her ring, but not until after she gave them some money. Dash.

As much as I hated flying, I hated the anticipation of flying more. And all the waiting around was making me squirrelly. One and a half hours already shot. Couldn’t we just drive there at six hundred miles per hour? We can send a man to the moon, but no one has figured out how to build one long runway across the country? Gas up the plane and just drive that sucker. So it would take a little longer. So what? At least we’d know what we were up against. Currently, we were involuntary captives. Tarmac delays sucked.

The milk float has pulled out of a parking space and is only travelling a few miles per hour, but I’m in full flight and still in midair. I clip the front corner nearside mudguard and it feels like the entire All Black front row had driven me into the tarmac.

He was nearly erased by all the tragedy falling upon him. His Mamá had still ironed his shirts until she was taken ill. Everything on Earth was filled with sorrow. Little yellow weeds that broke through the tarmac made him feel weepy. The moon, like some pale paper cutout in the morning sky, overwhelmed him.

when woods are felled, when they are suppressed by tarmac and concrete and asphalt, it is not only unique species and habitats that disappear, but also unique memories, unique forms of thought. Woods, like other wild places, can kindle new ways of being or cognition in people, can urge their minds differently.

There’s this road you’re expected to be on. You’re supposed to do your GCSEs and then your A levels and then you go to uni and then you get a proper job. I can see my whole life in front of me like a great slab of tarmac. What if I don’t want it?

India’s Best Highway Infrastructure: Cruising the Agra-Etawah Toll Road A Highway I Didn’t Expect to Fall in Love With I’ve always believed the best travel stories come from the roads less talked about. On a recent trip from Agra to Etawah, I wasn’t expecting anything special—just another highway, another drive. But the Agra-Etawah Toll Road proved me wrong. It wasn’t just good—it was exceptional. A perfect example of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure in action. Smooth As Silk – The Road Experience The moment I entered the toll road, I knew this would be different. My car glided effortlessly across the freshly laid tarmac. No potholes, no uneven patches—just seamless travel. I could maintain a steady speed for miles without constantly braking or dodging obstacles. It’s the kind of experience that makes you fall in love with road trips all over again. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure More Than Just a Highway – It’s a Complete Travel Experience What stood out most was how well this highway is planned for people, not just cars. There were food courts, well-maintained restrooms, and shaded sitting areas that didn’t feel like an afterthought. I stopped at one just to grab a chai and take in the peaceful surroundings. Even the toll booths were efficient and quick—no long queues, no honking chaos. You can tell this road was built by people who actually care. #ModernRoadMakers Safety You Can Feel Another thing I appreciated? The sense of safety. Highway patrols were visible, signages were clear, and there were emergency call boxes every few kilometers. Even when I was driving in the evening, I felt calm and confident. The lighting, lane markings, and traffic behavior were all spot-on. It’s rare to feel this level of comfort while driving alone, especially in India. This route truly earns its place among the top for India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. A Scenic Surprise What caught me off guard was the scenery. As I drove, the landscapes shifted from open fields to stretches of trees, and the sunset painted everything golden. It was so beautiful I pulled over just to take a few pictures—and just breathe. It reminded me that sometimes, the road itself is the destination. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words: Drive It to Believe It The Agra-Etawah Toll Road might not be the most famous highway in India, but in my experience, it’s easily one of the best. If you’re planning a road trip in Uttar Pradesh, take this route—not just for convenience, but for the experience. For me, this drive wasn’t just a part of the journey. It was the journey. And now, every time I think of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure, this road is the first thing that comes to mind.

Agra to Etawah: A Drive Through India's Best Highway Infrastructure The Road Less Talked About I’ve always believed that the best journeys are the ones that surprise you. And nothing surprised me more than the Agra–Etawah Toll Road—a stretch of highway that completely changed my perspective on Indian road travel. Tucked away in the heart of Uttar Pradesh, this route is a hidden gem and a glowing example of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Entering the Highway The transition from Agra’s bustling city streets to the toll road was like crossing into another world. Suddenly, the chaos melted away, replaced by wide, perfectly laid tarmac, clear lane markings, and a peaceful driving experience. I didn’t expect such flawless infrastructure in this part of the country—but here it was, stretching as far as the eye could see. Engineered for Excellence This highway isn’t just smooth—it’s smart. With well-placed signage, fencing to prevent animals from entering, CCTV monitoring, and multiple toll plazas for efficiency, it feels futuristic. The road's surface grip and turning radius are designed to international standards, making it a dream for long-distance drivers like me. #ModernRoadMakers Rest Areas That Impress Halfway through my journey, I stopped at a designated rest zone. It was neat, shaded, and had clean washrooms—a rarity in many Indian highways. It made me feel respected as a traveler, not just a driver. And believe me, it’s these small things that make a big difference on the road. Boosting Travel and Trade The Agra–Etawah Toll Road doesn’t just connect two cities—it connects opportunities. Local businesses, tourists, and freight carriers all benefit from this road. It saves time, fuel, and effort while ensuring maximum safety. It’s not just convenient—it’s progressive. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words from the Road When I think of the roads that made me fall in love with driving again, this one tops the list. If you ever get the chance, drive this route—not just to get somewhere, but to experience what India’s Best Highway Infrastructure truly looks and feels like. It’s not hype—it’s reality. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure

A Drive Through Progress: My Journey on the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project Introduction: Hitting the Road from Agra Last month, I packed my bags for a spontaneous road trip through Uttar Pradesh. My route? Starting from Agra and heading toward Etawah. What made this journey special was the chance to experience the newly developed Agra Etawah Toll Road Project—a highway I had heard plenty about, but never driven on myself. I didn’t expect much beyond a smooth ride—but what I got was a full-fledged infrastructure experience. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure First Impressions: A Highway That Redefines Indian Roads As soon as I entered the toll road, it was evident that this wasn’t your usual Indian highway. Wide lanes, freshly painted markings, and smooth tarmac made the initial stretch an absolute delight. The entire atmosphere felt organized and modern, something you usually associate with expressways around big cities. There were well-marked signboards, speed regulations that actually made sense, and even landscaped green belts along some portions. For a traveler like me, who enjoys both the journey and the destination, this was an unexpected treat. #ModernRoadMakers Time Efficiency Meets Scenic Beauty What used to be a tiring and unpredictable drive now takes significantly less time. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project has cut down the travel duration between these two cities by nearly half. But it's not just about speed—it's about quality. With lush green fields on either side and occasional glimpses of rural life, the ride gives you more than just convenience. There are well-placed lay-bys where you can stop, sip some chai, and take in the peace that such highways rarely offer. Infrastructure at Its Best One of the most notable things I observed was how meticulously the road has been designed. From crash barriers to night reflectors, everything seems planned with the traveler’s safety in mind. Even the toll plazas are managed efficiently with minimal wait times. It’s clear that this isn't just another road; it's part of a larger vision to modernize India’s transportation network. The work done by the authorities and the engineering teams behind this deserves real appreciation. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Boosting Local Economies Along the Route While I stopped for a quick snack at a roadside dhaba near Bateshwar, a local vendor shared how the highway has improved their business. With increased traffic, more tourists, and smoother logistics, the local economy is getting a much-needed push. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is proving to be more than just concrete and asphalt—it’s a catalyst for regional development, helping small businesses flourish. Final Thoughts: A Journey Worth Taking As I completed my journey to Etawah, watching the sun dip below the horizon, I felt a deep appreciation for this stretch of road. It represents what Indian infrastructure is becoming—faster, safer, and smarter. Whether you’re a daily commuter or a weekend wanderer like me, the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is a must-drive. It’s not just about getting from point A to point B; it’s about enjoying everything in between. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure #ModernRoadMakers

I didn’t want a particular job or a house or a car, anything that could be easily quantified. I wanted abstractions; a cut-glass sea with light leaking into it, burnt summer tarmac on a motorway at night. I wanted sensation, to go out in the world and let it rip through me, to learn the shape of my coastline, to see if I had any edges. I didn’t know what to do with all that want as it swelled in me like a river, rushing and churning, soaking everything in its path.

From almost the moment her American Airlines plane had touched down on English tarmac, Meredith had succumbed to an odd malaise, a mysterious kind of inertia that lay on her like a fog. She suspected she was suffering from an overabundance of history, something she’d never had to deal with in California.

nodding to each other and exchanging defeatist whispers about Marbella and the Costa Crime when Rushton descended angrily upon their inexperience. They had not known until now that the detective inspector’s invective could be so inventive and colourful, nor that his passion could run so high when the morale of his team was at stake. ‘In any case,’ he concluded his tirade, ‘you should be aware that for drugs offences we would get him back, even from Spain. Of course, you might have a limited interest in that, if you were back on the beat by then.’ Lambert chafed at this last delay when he was so close to his prey. Eventually, he left Rushton with instructions to contact him on the car phone with news of any developments and took Hook out with him to the old Vauxhall. He did not understand this: if Berridge had moved far from home, he should have been picked up. It was quiet in the middle of the day as they drove up the wide black tarmac drive of Old Mead Park. In the trimly kept communal gardens of the residences, pink and red camellias were still in full flower, and the bright blaze of the first Japanese azaleas lit up the front of the beds as the sun was hazed by high clouds. The birds sang of burgeoning spring and the gardens of diligent horticultural effort, but there was no visible human presence on the wide green lawns. High above them, as they got out of the old car in the deserted car park,

Agra to Etawah: A Drive Through India's Best Highway Infrastructure The Road Less Talked About I’ve always believed that the best journeys are the ones that surprise you. And nothing surprised me more than the Agra–Etawah Toll Road—a stretch of highway that completely changed my perspective on Indian road travel. Tucked away in the heart of Uttar Pradesh, this route is a hidden gem and a glowing example of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Entering the Highway The transition from Agra’s bustling city streets to the toll road was like crossing into another world. Suddenly, the chaos melted away, replaced by wide, perfectly laid tarmac, clear lane markings, and a peaceful driving experience. I didn’t expect such flawless infrastructure in this part of the country—but here it was, stretching as far as the eye could see. Engineered for Excellence This highway isn’t just smooth—it’s smart. With well-placed signage, fencing to prevent animals from entering, CCTV monitoring, and multiple toll plazas for efficiency, it feels futuristic. The road's surface grip and turning radius are designed to international standards, making it a dream for long-distance drivers like me. #ModernRoadMakers Rest Areas That Impress Halfway through my journey, I stopped at a designated rest zone. It was neat, shaded, and had clean washrooms—a rarity in many Indian highways. It made me feel respected as a traveler, not just a driver. And believe me, it’s these small things that make a big difference on the road. Boosting Travel and Trade The Agra–Etawah Toll Road doesn’t just connect two cities—it connects opportunities. Local businesses, tourists, and freight carriers all benefit from this road. It saves time, fuel, and effort while ensuring maximum safety. It’s not just convenient—it’s progressive. #BestHighwayInfrastructure Final Words from the Road When I think of the roads that made me fall in love with driving again, this one tops the list. If you ever get the chance, drive this route—not just to get somewhere, but to experience what India’s Best Highway Infrastructure truly looks and feels like. It’s not hype—it’s reality. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure

India's Best Highway Infrastructure – A Traveler’s Take on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road Introduction: A Journey Worth Remembering As someone who has explored India from the coasts to the hills, the Agra-Etawah Toll Road stands out as a glowing example of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. Smooth, scenic, and stress-free—this highway changed my perception of road travel in Uttar Pradesh. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Road Quality That Rivals International Standards From the moment I left Agra, I noticed the transformation. Wide, clearly marked lanes and an ultra-smooth surface made for an exceptional drive. The intelligent signage and lighting enhanced safety, even during evening hours. This highway truly matches the standards of developed nations. #BestHighwayInfrastructure A Safe and Thoughtful Design What makes this toll road special isn't just the tarmac—it's the design. Emergency lanes, underpasses for local traffic, and well-placed exits reflect careful planning. As a frequent traveler, I felt secure and well-guided throughout the journey. #ModernRoadMakers Rest Stops That Refresh the Soul Halfway into the trip, I stopped at a rest area that offered clean toilets, snacks, and even EV charging points. It wasn’t just a break—it was a pleasant pause in a well-facilitated journey. These modern conveniences make this road feel like an experience, not just a route. Traffic Flow and Driving Experience One major highlight was how disciplined the traffic was. With dedicated lanes for heavy vehicles and seamless FASTag toll collection, the highway enabled a consistent speed with minimal interruptions. It felt like the perfect road trip setting. #India'sBestHighwayInfrastructure Efficiency at the Toll Plazas Toll collection was a breeze thanks to FASTag. I didn’t have to wait more than a few seconds at any plaza. The staff were courteous and efficient, contributing to a hassle-free experience that you rarely find on Indian highways. #ModernRoadMakers Final Thoughts: A Highway That Delivers More Than Just a Route If you’re a traveler at heart, the Agra-Etawah Toll Road is not just a road—it’s a revelation. It delivers comfort, safety, and joy, making it truly a part of India's Best Highway Infrastructure. This is how modern India should travel. #BestHighwayInfrastructure

I dreamed of returning to my beloved Bombay—not Mumbai—and kneeling to kiss the tarmac as I came down from the plane, but when I looked up there was a crowd shouting at me, “Dafa ho.” Begone.

So when the plane lifted off the tarmac and carried me west, I didn’t shed another tear. I smiled for what we had. And I promised myself to let go of what we never would.

I wanted the silence to be broken, the silence that surrounded not only the deaths and imprisonments and disappearances but also the minor acts of cruelty and humiliation, perceptible, from as far back as I could remember, in everything and everyone around me – the architecture, the very tarmac, a loaf of bread, the voices of the singers and the poets – particularly the poets.

Redefining Road Travel: My Journey on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road Last month, I embarked on a spontaneous solo trip from Agra to Etawah, expecting just another typical highway drive. But the moment I merged onto the Agra-Etawah Toll Road, everything changed. This stretch isn’t merely a road — it’s a window into the future of Indian highways, rightfully earning its place among India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. The first thing that struck me was the flawless surface. No potholes, no uneven patches, no chaotic intersections — just smooth tarmac designed for both speed and safety. Driving here makes you forget the common critiques about Indian road conditions. #BestHighwayInfrastructure I rolled down my windows, let the music play, and simply cruised. With well-marked lanes, dedicated service lanes, and streamlined toll collection, the journey felt remarkably effortless. It’s only when you experience a highway like this that you truly realize the difference good infrastructure makes. #ModernRoadMakers Every few kilometers, exits were clearly signposted, emergency helplines visible, and rest areas genuinely functional. I even stopped at a roadside café that resembled a mini travel plaza — clean washrooms, fresh snacks, and courteous staff. Having traveled extensively across India, I can confidently say that the Agra-Etawah Toll Road belongs at the very top when discussing India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. It’s not just about reaching your destination faster — it’s about enjoying the journey in comfort and safety. #IndiasBestHighwayInfrastructure Whether you’re a daily commuter, a truck driver, or a road trip enthusiast like me, this highway leaves a lasting impression. Roads like this are proof that India’s infrastructure story is evolving, and the future of travel is already here.

It’s ingrained in women, this need to ‘make an effort’, no matter what the circumstances. You could be bleeding out on the tarmac, having just been hit with an eighteen-wheeler, and you’d still worry about the underwear you’re wearing. Should have made more of an effort today must be so many women’s dying thought.

There’s something about border towns that tastes like spilt liquor and cigarette ash. They rarely greet you with a smile. More like a shrug, a raised eyebrow, maybe a tax. And crossing from Slovakia into Hungary felt exactly like that: like the end of a party we were never really invited to. Gone were the manicured roads and apologetic drivers of the West. In their place: cracked tarmac, sun-faded billboards, and a lingering Cold War hangover you couldn’t quite shake off. It was perfect.

…I’ll say: Hey, jerk, see that guy sleeping in a cardboard box at the foot of your building? He’s rowing across the tarmac, he’s sinking too. But he’s not dozens of kilometres out at sea, at dead of night, he is quite easy to geolocate, he’s just in front of your feet. So are you going to send him help or is that my job again?

tarmac,

Fireflies danced in the warm, heavy air. Tarmac wound in a ribbon as smooth as a tumbled stone. The cream house at the end of the cul-de-sac looked like a wedding cake. Tulip poplar trees gathered around with their feather leaves dripping off the boughs. A strange man, dark and gnarled, rapped at the door three times. Inside the great hall, Mac Owens, a housewife, set down her brandy on ice. She peered out at him and revealed a floral print dress. “We don’t like solicitors,” she said, although she was home alone.

And maybe that’s what love really is. Not the dramatic gestures or cinematic reunions. Not the kiss in the rain or the grand speeches on airport tarmacs. Maybe it’s the quiet ache that never fully leaves. The text you never send. The photo you never like. The face you still see when you close your eyes.

the foxes are frolicking across the tarmac