We're constantly buying airplane tickets; we travel on the

In the words of Eva Herzigová, radiant icon of her age, we are given a glimpse into the spirit of swiftness and abundance: “We’re constantly buying airplane tickets; we travel on the Concorde.” What may appear at first as a casual reflection of luxury carries with it echoes of deeper meaning, of human yearning for speed, for progress, for the conquest of distance. For in those words resounds the eternal desire of humankind to rise above the earth, to stretch beyond its limits, and to live in a state of constant motion toward horizons yet unseen.

To buy airplane tickets is not merely to exchange coin for travel—it is to embrace the ceaseless rhythm of movement, the restlessness of the heart that refuses to remain still. From the dawn of time, man has sought to wander. The nomads of the deserts carried their tents on the wind; the Vikings carved their ships to cut through the waves; the pilgrims walked roads of dust and stone to reach their holy shrines. In every age, there are those who cannot be rooted, who must go, who must see, who must chase the faraway light. Herzigová’s words reflect not only privilege but also the spirit of this ancient hunger for new lands, new experiences, new skies.

And then there is the Concorde—the great silver bird, faster than sound itself, once the pride of nations. To travel on such a vessel is to ride the spear of progress, to sit upon the back of human invention as it shatters barriers. It is not simply transportation; it is the declaration of an age that dared to believe speed was not enough unless it broke the very sound of the air. The Concorde was no common carriage but a chariot of the sky, a reminder that humanity’s destiny is not to crawl, but to soar. In invoking it, Herzigová is not only speaking of luxury, but of the ancient thirst for transcendence—the desire to be where others cannot, to reach beyond time and space, to taste the impossible.

Think of the great emperor Hadrian, whose restless spirit carried him across the vast Roman Empire. Unlike rulers who reigned from the stillness of palaces, he walked among his soldiers, sailed to the edges of his provinces, and raised monuments where he went. He built walls and cities, not because he sought to stay in one place, but because his soul was bound to movement. Like the buying of endless tickets, Hadrian’s life was a cycle of departure and arrival, of never allowing the horizon to remain unconquered. His life, like the Concorde centuries later, was a triumph of speed, breadth, and vision.

Yet in these words there lies both wonder and warning. For to constantly travel is to risk never being still, never planting roots, never listening to the silence of one place. The Concorde, mighty though it was, flew high and fast, yet it burned with such ferocity that its life was brief. Luxury may carry us swiftly, but even wings of gold cannot outlast time. The lesson, then, is not to chase ceaselessly without thought, but to recognize both the glory and the cost of motion.

So what, then, should we learn? It is this: cherish the gift of movement, for it is the mark of life itself. Do not be afraid to seek out new lands, to cast your eyes on horizons unfamiliar, to let your spirit ride the lightning of progress. But also remember that rest has its place, that speed without meaning is but noise in the wind. Travel not only to say you have flown, but to return with wisdom, with stories, with gratitude for the vastness of the world.

In your own life, then, take up the spirit of the wanderer. Buy your ticket, not always with coin, but with courage—the courage to leave the known and step into the unknown. Seek your own Concorde, whatever form it takes: the path that challenges you, that carries you further, faster, deeper into life than you thought possible. And when you arrive, do not forget to pause, to breathe, to remember that the purpose of all flight is not only the speed of the journey, but the depth of the arrival.