...I remember a flight with my then girlfriend and future wife in a puddle jumper into Aspen out of the old Stapleton airport in Denver, with a bunch of really deep drops in flight - we'd been partying on the layover so were partially anesthetized - but that one, into Newark in an ice storm, is the only one where, for a flashing moment, I felt I might die.
I think we were the last flight in that night and they closed the airport after we arrived.
At one point in my life, I did fly a lot, on average one or two times a week. I remember one time when I flew to California for a few days, flew home to NJ on a red eye, arriving in the morning, hung out with guests for my son's first birthday party, left the party, flew to Norway for a job interview that involved drinking aquavit and who knows what else with the CEO and the guy who would be my future (alcoholic) boss. I probably shouldn't have taken that job, but I did. It was a big mistake.
When I took the first traveling job, for a French company, I thought it would be fun, and occasionally it was, some nice times in Paris to be sure, but overall, it sucked overall after a certain point.
If I had to do that again, it would kill me for sure, crash or no crash.
I'd be like Kliban's Salvadore Quanucci:
Obviously neither Salvadore Quanucci nor I (nor Kliban) could be troubled by these situations since it requires existence to be troubled.
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