I was checking into a Courtyard in Florida, week eight of a stretch that has another twelve weeks to go. I don't drink the tap water in this part of the state. Much of Florida draws from underground limestone aquifers, and even at low parts-per-million the sulfur comes through as that rotten-egg taste that makes you reconsider dehydration as the better option. So I look forward to the two bottles of water that are supposed to be waiting in the room. They get forgotten more of

Understanding the Rhythm of Travel Atlanta on a Monday morning is already bustling when you arrive. The terminal is packed, and it will remain so when you leave. No one is shopping. No one is browsing. The coffee lines move swiftly because the people in them know exactly what they want. Gates fill in sequence, not all at once, and the rhythm of it is almost mechanical. Check-in to security to concourse—the same choreography repeated by thousands of travelers who have done it