You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for. 
---Maya Angelou, "On the Pulse of Morning"

It was hard to imagine how we were going to be able top last year's burn. At least for me, it was a perfect experience as a first-time, a "Virgin Burner," as they are called.

Because of my friendship with Okki, and who convinced me to come at the last minute, and sold me the ticket, I got to meet over a dozen other fantastic people in our camp.

Among them was Stefan---one of Okki's Swedish friends who lived in Zurich and worked for a large bank. Stefan was tall and thin, in contrast to Okki's expansive round build.  They close by each other during much of the week.

Stefan had flown directly from Switzerland into Black Rock City (aka the Burning Man site), changing planes at Reno to a scheduled charter flight that landed at the makeshift Burning Man airport on the playa (I has a check-in procedure and everything, but no TSA goons).

I got to go out to the airport one afternoon last year with a bunch of other folks from the camp. Tommy, a short sturdy sometimes-kilt-wearing Scotsman, had towed his ultralight plane in a trailer from Aspen and was giving folks a ride during the daylight hours. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get enough lift to get yours truly off the ground, but we somehow made it up in the air.

The ten minutes we spent making a partial arc around the perimeter of the city (one is not allowed to fly directly over it) were among the most adrenaline-producing moments of my life. Considering that from the passenger seat, one can see directly downwards to the playa floor, it was quie a challenge to let go of the fear and simply enjoy the experience.