There was a time when flying was fun: before my shoes were bombs and my laptop housed the makings of a terrorist plot, when lunch was more than a handful of pretzels and breakfast even existed. After it’s determined I am not a fugitive hell-bent on blowing up the world, security pushes me through, and along with the half-dozen other insomniacs at the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport, I line up for my version of a McBreakfast – a large coffee, extra cream. We make good time to Philly, which on balance is good for those with connecting flights. But it makes me wonder: What law is it that says if your ticket shows you’ve got 55 minutes to connect with your next flight, you will arrive 20 minutes late at a gate at the other end of the terminal; but if you’ve got a three-hour layover, your plane catches a tailwind and you’re in 15 minutes early? Whatever law it is, it has found me today: Instead of having all the time in the world, I now have all the time in the world with an extra quarter hour tacked on. (more…)