Airplane, fēijī. (Sounds like: fay-gee. As in, gee whiz.)
Somehow, above the roar of the city’s song, my girl manages to pick up on seemingly every airplane flying by and must accordingly adjust her view — whether throwing her head back in the carrier or smushing her face against the back door screen — in order to identify it with an insistent point of her outstretched index finger.
“Yes!” we say for the umpteenth time. “Fay-gee!”
Last week we took a better-late-than-never summer vacation in the Outer Banks, and she actually got to ride in one. Though, the view of the thing up close — boarding the small plane from the runway — seemed to more totally blow her mind.
