A few days ago, I flew home for the holidays. I was excited, seeing as I usually take the train. Just to clarify, the train takes 5 hours to get me to my destination, while the plane takes 1. The sooner I arrive home, the more time I have for family bonding (read: the more time I have to pet the dog until he remembers who I am).
It was a fairly calm morning, as most Torontonians were celebrating Christmas. I, on the other hand, was about to celebrate boarding an aircraft. Hallelujah.
Waiting to take off, I solemnly nodded at the passenger next to me. We were both about to experience a flight so quick that it was nothing short of miraculous, and there’s nothing quite like a nod to communicate that feeling (…although I’m told a nod can mean many different things. For the purposes of this post, it only means that one sentiment).
What followed was a turbulent nightmare-coated-nightmare of a trip.
The winds were so rough we couldn’t even land the first time. I looked at my air-sickness bag in disbelief, in denial of what I knew was about to happen. Kids, these times of peril really change how you see things. The passenger to my left became my Mother Theresa by talking me through weather so bad that more than half the plane was being reminded of what they ate for breakfast. The father in front of me, attempting to soothe his infant daughter, became my primary candidate for the Nobel Prize For Being Super Cool (who won the last one? Was it Stephen Colbert? God that guy is super cool). The flight attendants became my confidantes. I’ll likely not run into these folks again, but man alive do I wish them well.
Long story short, I had a rough flight, and I did not care for the fact that it took us almost as much time to land as it took us to travel to our destination. My dear, slow train; can I have this dance?