Flight

When I was younger, I used to be so scared of plane trips. I’d get anxious the night before, and I’d grimly whiteknuckle my way through the flight (particularly at take offs and landings) all the while imagining the hundreds of different ways something could go wrong, causing us all to plummet to a firey death. Man, I was a weird kid. 

Things changed after Z got sick. I figured that those statisticians probably were right: I did have a higher chance of dying in a car crash than on a plane (my driving skills probably put me at an even greater risk), and if it was my time to go then so be it. In any case, there would be little I could do to ameliorate the situation from way back in economy, so why not (literally and metaphorically) enjoy the ride? 

And just like that, air travel became a whole new experience. Each time I fly, I marvel at this miracle of science that allows this giant hulk of metal to tear away from the earth’s surface. 

I always try to get a window seat, so I can watch as the earth quickly drops away, and the cars, trees and houses recede to become miniature figurines. And then for a brief period we’re at cruising altitude, and flight attendants serve coffee and breakfast like it’s the most unremarkable thing in the world (except we’re 30,000 feet above the ground, with air so thin we couldn’t breathe it, being propelled onwards to our destination by exploding rocket fuel, and the air in my orange juice container is trying to expand all over the place in this strange cabin pressure). And it is completely unremarkable, because they and so many  other people do travel like this every day. And then the plane noses downwards, and the trees and the houses explode back into life size, and then with a jolt we’re on the ground and back to normalcy. 

Oh and by the way, here’s your bag. It was taken away from you on a barcode-scanning, laser-measuring conveyor belt almost 500 miles away. Since then, it’s traveled through the maze of two different airports, negotiating its way through the comings and goings of thousands of other non-sentient objects, to meet you here, as you stand waiting to dash away to the taxi rank. 

Magic.
And yet we complain about the entertainment system.

PS Has anyone else noticed how it’s always the fluffiest, most cotton wool-like clouds that pack the most turbulent punch?