There was a time in my life when I harbored serious disdain for those who catered to their own irrational fear of flying in airplanes. Indeed, what could be safer than an airplane? Trains derail, cars crash, pedestrians trip on curbs or get hit by said cars. Planes, after all, only crash in rare, statistically limited instances. Of course, if you happen to be on one of those flights, there is little you can do, but that’s all part of the deal. But as I jet setted about throughout my youth I sneered condescendingly at those who couldn’t handle the exhilaration of takeoffs, the velocity of landing or, heaven forbid, a bout of turbulence. Oh no, bumps, we’re doomed ? Sissies.
This is a perfectly understandable attitude, I feel, for someone who lived a Fight Club-style existence from age 13 onward. Yes, as a competitive policy debater I spent more time in high school on airplanes bound for parts unknown than I did in the classroom, which justifies (ahem) my abysmally low SAT math scores (not that these things matter ? ). My college essay read like a businessman’s rapsheet. The only substance from which I could draw “important formative experience” were the endless hours trekking through the stagnant, dismal airports of our country, accented only by the occasional stop in the Continental President’s lounge (the perks of being a Silver Onepass member by ninth grade) from which I could comfortably monitor CNN, the levels of my gin and tonic and the betting line on whichever college game (or dog race) happened to be showing. DFW, ORD, LAX, ATL, DCA you name it. I lived in the dismal moving walkways and 737 cabins of this great nation, fueled by single-serving peanuts, in-flight copies of The Economist and the thrill of turbulent takeoffs. I could recite the in-flight safety instructions in my sleep.
As trite as it sounds, that all changed radically last year. Flying has become an act of faith. Despite all of my physics’ teachers highfalutin explanations of aerodynamics, thermal dynamics and airflow of curved wing design, modern aviation is still like my CD player: It just works. Fairy dust or avionics, it’s all the same to me. The plane goes up and only comes down when it is approaching a clear, well-lit runway. It’s the kind of faith you have getting into a D.C. cab; it could all go awry (and statistically it will) at the drop of a hat, but somehow you have that gut feeling that it will always work out.
A lot of planes crashed last year. Aside from the obvious, one cannot forget the additional crashes resulting from mechanical failure and inept European air traffic control, which is arguably more troubling than a terrorist attack. So my faith in the event of air travel was seemingly forever ruptured, and every flight during the past year was marked by me simpering in the corner, counting the minutes ‘til the inevitable meltdown. I suddenly felt like a real asshole for all those years of Ed Norton self-assurance. Whatever Captain McFarlane explained went in one ear and out the other as I lay restrained, jittery and glassy-eyed in my seat. Hijacking, drunk co-pilot, that gremlin on the wing from the Twilight Zone, all were more probable explanations for every bump, rapid descent or sharp turn.
Imagine my delight at flying home two-legs each way to Denver this past week with another two in the middle to visit relatives in Texas. Yessir, DFW and those increasingly down-sized bags of in-flight pretzels have lost their veneer, and those monuments of American mobility neither whet my appetite for travel nor satiate my need for the once-reassuring hum of twin Boeing jet engines. Remarkably, as I touched down in DCA (arrival from the south, not over Georgetown) on that oft-terrifying near crash in the Potomac, I felt oddly at ease. Maybe I got my groove back somewhere over Cleveland. Either way, I’m sticking to the rails for these next few weeks. To all the air travel un-savvy or otherwise cowardly, I salute you.
Ian Bourland is a junior in the School of Foreign Service and an associate editor of The Georgetown Voice. Like a fine wine, he improves with age.
