Passing through the Atlanta airport one morning, I caught one of those trains that take travelers from the main terminal to their boarding gates. Free, sterile and impersonal, the trains run back and forth all day long. Not many people consider them fun, but on this Saturday I heard laughter.
  
    At the front of the first car – looking out the window at the track that lay ahead – were a man and his son.
  
     We had just stopped to let off passengers, and the doors wee closing again. “Here we go! Hold on to me tight!” the father said. The boy, about five years old, made sounds of sheer delight.
  

I know we’re supposed to avoid making racial distinctions these days, so I hope no one will mind if I mention that most people on the train were white, dressed for business trips or vacations – and that the father and son were black, dressed in clothes that were just about as inexpensive as you can buy.

“Look out there!” the father said to his son. “See that pilot? I bet he’s walking to his plane.” The son craned his neck to look.

As I got off, I remembered some thing I’d wanted to buy in the terminal. I was early for my flight, so I decided to go back.

I did – and just as I was about to reboard the train for my gate, I saw that the man and his son had returned too. I realized then that they hadn’t been heading for a flight, but had just bee riding the shuttle.

“I want to ride some more!”

“More?” the father said, mock-exasperated but clearly pleased. “You’re not tired?”

“This is fun!” his son said.

“All right,” the father replied, and when a door opened we all got on.