Something About Myself That I Don’t Understand

In 1996, I took a flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong.  I had a window seat on a United 747.  For the bums in coach (including me), the seat configuration was 3-4-3.  There was someone in the aisle seat but no one between us.

The flight time was probably a bit longer than 14 hours.

I remember almost nothing about that flight except for this: I got out of that seat only twice, and both times only after my aisle companion got up first.

How in the hell did I survive a 14 hour flight with only two trips to stretch my legs and hit the lav?  Today the thought of a five hour cross country trip makes me curl into the fetal position and whimper.  I’m chalking it up to either a trance-like state or a complete lack of food and beverage 24 hours prior to the flight.