Seeing a Hot Air Balloon. They appear in the sky like this bubble of magical Victoriana floating across suburbia. You hear that deep, rumbling woosh of the burner, and your eyes instinctively turn to the heavens. You tell other people in the house which is the best window to see them from. When they're real close, it's super-exciting. They're without purpose. They're not going anywhere in particular, except up and down. They're populated by people who, for the duration of their dreamy basket-ride, have left the buzz and fuzz and noise of society far below. Those are lucky people, you think. They're just drifting.
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