There is an ancient Constellation, (the aircraft, not the star stuff) at the airport where I work.
It’s an old rust bucket that sits at the end of the runway and to the side, out of the way, forgotten. Yet every now and then a pilot, usually an older gentleman, will look out the window, see the rusty old Connie and his eyes will fill with glee. “Is that a Constellation?!” “A Connie, can we go over there?!” Such remarks are rare, but when they are spoken, they carry a sense of magical nostalgia that I’m too young to relate to. I don’t think there’s an aircraft like that for my generation, something that’s perpetually amazing, initially because it’s a technological marvel and later because it’s a nostalgic relic of a unique past.