Did you know that flying from New York to Taiwan takes about 20 hours? That’s 20 hours of sitting on your butt, bored out of your mind, nowhere to run. When I was little, it also entailed 20 hours of being surrounded by the interior of an airplane that belonged to an airline company whose motif was green. Green cups, green food trays, green pillows, green blankets, green seat belts, green green green. To this day, the sight of that shade of green is enough to make me feel claustrophobic and slightly air-sick. So given that it’s my least favorite color, it’s been kind of difficult admitting that I sort of miss it.

As everyone probably knows, here in the concrete jungle, trees are sparse. You might see one planted every 20 feet on the sidewalk, if you’re lucky. Or you might see some greenery as you pass an atrium or lobby of some high-scale building. But to be able to breathe in and appreciate the beauty is a rare opportunity.

Growing up in the suburbs spoiled me. With a lawn and big backyard attached to every house, you were hard-pressed to find a place that wasn’t grassy or shrubby or tree-y. (I’m a literary genius, can’t you tell?) And when I moved to the city, it was soon very apparent that the only place I would experience something half as green as the ‘burbs was in some park somewhere. Not to say that Central Park, for instance, is anything to laugh about. It’s green, all right. And it’s huge. But it’s not home. And I’m way too self-conscious to sit beneath a tall tree in Central Park and daydream as the light danced through the tree’s leaves.

Makes me a little nostalgic. Makes me wish I had appreciated green-ness when I could. Makes me wish I had never said all those bad things about that blend of yellow and blue. Makes me wish I could hop on that airplane again and take another 20 hour flight.

But not really. Blech, I’m getting air-sick just thinking about it.