I'm sitting in the Philadelphia airport waiting for my flight to London Gatwick and smelling something delicious. I think a burrito. Which will turn out to be hideously disappointing, I'm sure, but I might just partake. If I let my hunger go unrequited any longer, I'm going to gnaw my own wrist off.
The short flight from Boston was on a tiny plane which had little signs everywhere saying that the assembly of the plane was finished in Brazil, which was more than a little troubling. As I realized just how small the plane was, visions swam before me of carefree Brazilian mechanics haphazardly bolting together this tin can someone had the gall to call a plane. A hundred Rosies riveting with joints in their mouths and an all-important soccer game going on in the background.
This vision abruptly disappeared as we hurtled into the sky and made such sharp turns that the windows felt almost parallel to the ground thousands of feet below. As usual, my body went into panic mode, i.e. a light coma, until we hit the ground. And I do mean hit.
The short flight from Boston was on a tiny plane which had little signs everywhere saying that the assembly of the plane was finished in Brazil, which was more than a little troubling. As I realized just how small the plane was, visions swam before me of carefree Brazilian mechanics haphazardly bolting together this tin can someone had the gall to call a plane. A hundred Rosies riveting with joints in their mouths and an all-important soccer game going on in the background.
This vision abruptly disappeared as we hurtled into the sky and made such sharp turns that the windows felt almost parallel to the ground thousands of feet below. As usual, my body went into panic mode, i.e. a light coma, until we hit the ground. And I do mean hit.
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