J.G.

Who is John Galt? This weary world-traveler may never find out. Not because I'm too busy traipsing across the globe; unfortunately, my carry-ons have been collecting dust lately. But I've come to rely on my travel time to squeeze in guilt-free reading time. Atlas Shrugged pulls up when I press the 'now reading' toggle button of my new Nook, and I'm dying to find out who John Galt is. By the time I trundle off to bed after a busy day of not-traveling (isn't it amazing how time is so inversely proportioned to length of to-do lists?), I'm barely able to lift my finger to push the 'next' button. Many people complain of the waiting time wasted in airports, growing more belligerent with each delayed flight. (Seriously, people, if your aircraft has been held back for a maintenance concern, do you want to rush the mechanics entrusted with making a 138,000 pound iron tube stay as gravity-defiant as the clouds? And contrary to popular belief, the ticket agent isn't hiding his/her magic weather-changing wand out of sheer spite. Lay off the Harry Potter thinking already). But an oversold flight, weather delay, or aircraft swap fills me with excitement -- more time in my literary heaven. Sure, it's something easily done at home; however, that small voice muttering about the unloaded dishwasher, the front lawn deep enough to hide my 18-pound cat, marathons to train for, seeps into my subconscious and strangles the spirit out of the characters I'm desperate to get in to. All that is nonexistent in the airport, and I read in peace. So I need to book an oversold flight to the farthest destination on the east coast, and discover...who is John Galt?