I got my plane tickets this weekend. Seat 7F on a Boeing 737-800. For those in the know, that's six inches of extra leg room. Early on and early off. It's also a direct flight, so no layover in some random airport.
I think the last time I was on a plane was when I was 15 and I was also flying to San Diego then too. At that time I was flying with my good friend Jason to a youth gathering. Don't remember much of the flight there, so it must have been uneventful. No, wait — the last time I was on a plane was when I was 18, flying to NYC. That was eventful. My friend threw up next to me. It was embarrassing for her, but, miraculously, no one else had a sympathy barf, though I think some nearby passengers came pretty close. I don't get air sickness or motion sickness, and I don't mind heights. I actually sort of enjoy flying. Taking a flight may be commonplace for some, but I mean, come on, I'm sitting in a chair — in the sky. Perspective, people. That's pretty cool.
I think I'm going to send my gear ahead of me to a trail angel, just so I don't have to try to get trekking poles, a knife, batteries, and all sorts of very expensive stuff through airport security. You know what they say: Two by two, hands of blue.
I'm also considering opting out of the death ray screening and instead going for a "traditional" pat down. You know, the way they used to do it in the old days. Nothing like a free 1 minute massage from a bonified government official. I hear there is nothing quite like it.