If you like to hike or climb or surf or fish, you may know the high-end outdoor-clothing company Patagonia. Then again, you might also know Patagonia if you’ve ever visited Manhattan during winter, when affluent “Patagucci” devotees line the city streets, wrapped in the brand’s trendy, pricey, puffy down jackets.
“There are some of us who never had a choice,” Andy Abramowitz writes in his soul-searching first novel, “Thank You, Goodnight.” “If we can make music, we make it and there’s no hope of turning off the spigot. And if we can’t, we listen and obsess.”
We’ve all been there. Clear morning, quiet terminal. You’re a little early to your gate, and you’re watching the ground crew do their thing. Rationally, you know this works. It always works. But somewhere deep inside, there’s that small, primal part of you. It sees those tiny people working on that giant, manmade, metal bird. “There’s no way in hell,” it whispers, “something that big gets off the ground.” And yet every day, around the world, thousands do.