Has anyone ever enjoyed an airplane flight? Sure, in the good ol’ times you could wear your fanciest suit, smoke a cigar and watch your trophy wife get day drunk on martinis on a plane, and now you’re crammed between a sweaty, flip-flop-wearing dadbod and the loudest infant on earth, but was it ever pleasant? The dry air, the turbulence, the sheer fact you’re up in the sky on a piece of metal… And airplane bathrooms? It’s an abomination.
I’m not especially afraid of flying, it’s the whole atmosphere that makes me anxious and irritated. But just like the blessing of motherhood outshines the horror of childbirth (so they say, my mom just laughed when she heard that, so maybe it’s the other way around), the joy of finding ourselves somewhere far, far away in mere hours urges us to brave the overcrowded deathtraps that are planes again and again.
As you might have already guessed, this post is brought to you by me trying to escape the dreadful reality of one airplane flight from Munich to Moscow. A hipster-looking guy next to me is reading Camus and sneering at my outfit photos. We both know that you’re being the asshole right now.
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