For no good reason I can tell, California doesn’t operate on the same time schedule of New York City. It’s as if they feel they don’t have to play by the same rules. But, when in Rome, etc.
So for the next little while, daily posts will be delayed by the appropriate time it takes for the little bits and bytes of blogginess to wend their way back to civilization.
How about the unnaturalness of flying to the West? What happens is that Air, anxious to flow to the East, shoots over the left coast, spirits merrily along, minding its own business, when—bam!—it slams into the Rockies.
Normally, when meeting such an unyielding obstruction, Air would back off and wait for another day. But at the mountains, there’s nowhere else to go and there is a never-ending stream of Air cramming in behind it, waiting its turn.
So Air has no choice but to go up—and over. This irks it, and on some occasions, such as yesterday, really pisses it off. It makes it unfriendly to strangers and intruders; it becomes abusive.
We received one particularly hard slap which killed the back-of-the-seat video screens. At times like this, thoughts are not pleasant.
I calculate: here we are at 38,000 feet, which is about 7 miles straight up. How long would it take to fall that far? Our ground speed is 485 mph. Of course, it depends of whether there’s an explosion, which could remove some of our forward momentum. And don’t forget our trajectory will be like a half parabola, somewhat stunted by the head wind. The debris should end up somewhere north of Sasquatch’s base camp. The luggage and bodies—what’s left of them—should fall a fair piece behind the carcass of the plane…
In other words, you try and engage your mind so that you don’t focus on your impending doom.
Anyway, after a while, we meet friendlier, still complacent Air.
And then we landed and so I’m here.