Flying home from a European vacation last month provided me with an unexpectedly magical—by now almost mythical—experience: an on-time, half-empty, remarkably pleasant flight. I sipped a glass of bubbly and watched the latest John Wick, sprawling across the empty coach seat next to me, before taking a luxuriously roomy nap.
I’d almost stopped believing such things could exist. This summer, over several trips for work and vacation and a family wedding, I experienced nearly every example of just how terrible it is to fly these days: In June, vague aircraft “mechanical difficulties,” compounded by staff shortages, grounded me for hours in Toronto. In September, daylong weather delays—made worse by, yep, staff shortages—held me hostage at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Airports were mobbed, and getting a seat in the overcrowded airport lounges that are supposed to make waiting slightly more bearable resembled the vicious fray of The Hunger Games. And with ticket prices spiking earlier this year, I’d paid a small ransom for the privilege of repeatedly throwing myself into the melee.
