I seem to fly a lot. I hate it. I love to be in new places, but I hate the process of getting there. Fiery inferno are the two key words that spring to mind. I know this is completely irrational, that I have far greater opportunity to die in the taxi that will propel me from the airport on the other side of the trip, but it doesn’t stop the heebie jeebies.
When I board a flight, for an hour or a day, I always study the other passengers. Within seconds, they transform into the cast members of Snakes on a Plane. Who will be the hero I wonder. Who will be the first to scream and weep? Who will wet their pants? If we have some time before the actual inferno occurs (i.e. a hostage situation) is there anyone here I could fuck? I do the hover test with a few. This is when you imagine their faces are hovering two inches away from your own. No, no, no. Maybe.
When I get safely to my destination – which has often also involved hurtling through crazy traffic in a taxi driven by someone as foreign as me, but angrier – I always take a moment to give thanks. I light a candle and I thank whichever god or spirit might be passing through the room at the time.
Giving thanks is important to me.