Years ago, en route from New York to Japan, I spent a night in Anchorage. It was January; the early-morning landscape when I woke up and looked out the hotel window had me thinking I was on the dark side of the moon. I can’t recall if it was the turbulence as we approached Alaska—the worst I’d ever experienced—or an engine problem that had us in an unanticipated layover but I do recall a conversation with myself:  Continue in this state of high anxiety, hands gripping the armrests, or turn on another switch in the brain, take a few deep breaths, ride it out.  Bring a different, calmer, energy into the aircraft.  Can’t hurt—right? Might even help.

To admit to myself, back when I was young and twentyish and working for a travel magazine, that I don’t like flying never crossed my mind. So what if I had to fly to Honolulu and back to NYC within three days (nothing like a Mai Tai send-off on the return)?  Didn’t I fly to Portugal (first class)? Didn’t I make sure to spend a night up at  Machu Picchu when I was sent on assignment to Lima?

Now I can say it:  there’s nothing to like about flying, especially these days, what with long security lines and delayed flights more the norm than the exception. Sure, I love the places I don’t otherwise get to go; it’s the getting there that gives me pause. By the time you board, you may have already eaten the food that was supposed to get you through the flight. And, no, there’s nothing wrong with your seat—it’s just a little less padded and less pitched than it used to be. All in the interest of cramming more seats into the cabin.

Yes, misery loves company.  And my particular  misery is not  so easily steadied with a few deep breaths in a jam-packed plane. A glass of wine goes a long way.

A few weeks ago, a visit with my daughter, southern California. On the plane, about to taxi to the runway at JFK, glitch #1: Apparently there’s no running water on the plane, a situation that takes about forty-five minutes to rectify.  When we arrive in Los Angeles, glitch #2: the chain that secures the aircraft to the jet bridge at the gate is broken. No disembarking until that’s fixed.

Last week, a flight to Sacramento with my husband. A beautiful night for flying, a (mostly) smooth flight. Anytime we hit a pocket of turbulence, I remind myself I’ve been here before. I don’t want/need to understand its cause, I just want it to pass quickly.  I have my distractions:  books on my iPad, music on my iPhone.  Before I know it, we’re getting ready to land. Why, then, do I feel an odd sensation of up up up?  Am I supposed to feel reassured when that honeyed voice of the captain tells us the aircraft ahead of us was a little slow in landing and federal regulations require a certain distance between our aircraft and the one in front us?

Now comes the kicker, my flight back home, a red-eye with a female captain at the helm (not a big deal except that it’s a first for me). We’re at the back of the plane and sitting behind us is a boy who I figure to be eight or nine years old. Talking in a boyish, loud voice that has me worrying I may never shut my eyes. I don’t (yet) know whether he’s a child traveling by himself or with a companion.  All I know is that he’s much too chatty for a midnight flight. I’ve already drank as much wine as I can for the night. And his talk talk talk has me in a state of quiet alarm:

“I’ve flown 94 times.  First time I was two weeks old.”

“Have you ever been in a plane crash?  I was in one. Over water.  We had to go down a chute. We survived.” He says this all in a matter-of-fact way, just another Disney ride, thrills and chills. A man across aisle looks at me, and smiles when I remark, “Borderline cute.”  A woman two aisles down gets the flight attendant’s attention, asks her to please say something to the boy.

Fortunately he sleeps most of flight.

I don’t sleep a wink.

No sooner does night become day than I hear his voice.

“I can’t wait to see my dad.”  As soon as we’re on the ground he’s on the phone with mom. “We landed, you know, when you’re in the plane on the runway and they say you can turn on your cell phones.  The girl sitting near  me is also flying by herself. I love you, too.”

Then comes the call to dad, picking him up at the airport. “We’re on the runway. Can’t wait to see you.”

I stand up, take a minute to get a good look at him, ask him about his flight. He has an engaging smile. tells me he’s nine years old and that he’s flown 24 times. It’s possible that I misheard him earlier and/or he exaggerated when he was talking to the girl sitting next to him.

I do not ask about the plane crash.