Ligne 6 • July 2008

Excerpt from July 2008 Issue  •  Download Full Issue

I’m afraid of flying. I don’t mean that I get a little nervous during a particularly bad bout of turbulence or hold onto the arm rest a little tighter during take off. No, I am insanely, deathly afraid of flying to the point where I have to take tranquilizers to get onto a plane, and I usually shake like a leaf during most of the flight. Given this phobia, as a flight gets closer, I tend to read into the universe looking for signs that we’re going to crash. I didn’t say it was logical; it’s just something I do. 

For example, if I see a car crash on the side of the road, I think it’s a sign from the cosmos that my plane is going to go down in a ball of flames. I also get superstitious. I think that if I watch a movie or TV show that involves a plane crash, it means the same fate will happen to me. 

I say this all as a preface about a flight we took to England back in 2000. My cousin, who shares my same fear of flying and superstitions, was accompanying us on a two-week trip to the British Isles. We were all quite excited for this adventure until we arrived at the airport. At that point both my cousin and I were very nervous, cranky and upset at the thought of spending the next 15 hours on planes. To make matters worse after we made it through security we found out our flight was delayed. Apparently the plane hadn’t arrived yet.