From where I sit, flying high in the air, I can see the deep royal blue of the Atlantic. White waves are cresting around an island below, outlining the green and brown blob that, without a map, is nameless and unknown to me. I’m on my way to one of the islands off the east coast of Canada, an island with a miniature population where clocks are set 30 minutes off from the rest of the world’s. This is the first time I’ve approached Newfoundland when it wasn’t in the middle of a snowstorm.

A crackling voice comes over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen if you look out the left side of the aircraft, you can see icebergs.” This is interesting. I’ve never seen a real-life iceberg before. I remember the one in the movie Titanic, where it was the villain in the plot and a real hazard to the passengers. I’m transfixed by the marvelous, iridescent pale-blue block below me, bobbing peacefully in the vast ocean. I’m also disconcerted to realize the passenger to my right has decided my personal space no longer belongs to me, and that my knee makes a handy platform to support his frame as he presses his face against the window to get a better view.

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