This is an opinion column

It was apparently the flight from hell. My new friend was on a plane out of Huntsville Monday when the cabin filled with smoke, the lights went out, and even grown men, he said, screamed. He admitted he was one of them. The pilot was trying to escape thunderstorms and had to descend quickly.

All ended well, but don’t we remember our scary flight stories, especially when we’re about to fly again? This summer hasn’t been a good year for flying. Long departure delays have meant people arrive the day after the wedding, not the day before. All that wedding finery carefully packed in the suitcase will have to wait for the next big event. Nobody can gain weight until then.

So why do we go through the hassle, the trouble, the expense of flying? Because if we live in Alabama, it takes a long time to drive to our loved ones in Colorado and Montana. And it’s not possible to drive to France, where my granddaughter will soon live. it’s either go up in the air or see them next year, and at a certain age, how many next years do we have?

So we fly. Most of us cram into those coach class seats that are the size of sand buckets left on the beach. If the fellow in front of us leans his seat way back, he is napping in our lap for the duration of the flight, and it may be a long one.

I’ve been bumped up to first class twice. Once, the Delta desk person upgraded my husband and me at the best time. It was our anniversary and we were on a flight to Paris to visit a friend and celebrate. A flight attendant noticed my husband’s very tall frame and directed us to two seats up front that were as roomy as recliners. He brought us champagne and chocolate. “I could get used to this,” I thought.

The other time was when my sister and I flew to Costa Rica and the flight was overbooked. We waited patiently in the Atlanta airport and did not rush the desk with demands and questions about when the flight would finally be leaving. The American Airlines clerk rewarded us with first class seats and Mimosas. They must have thought we were the kind of women who drank at ten in the morning. Apparently, we were.

But most of flying is not chocolate and champagne, but perseverance and boredom and zoning out when possible. After five hours into an overseas flight, the attendants start serving food in what seems to be the middle of the night.

The sky outside the airplane porthole is black. So why are we eating pasta or peas or pork tenderloin. Why does airplane food all look alike, no matter what it is? And what kind of meat is gray? This is why I always get the vegetarian plate on a plane. The other stuff looks iffy.

Even as we start flying again, in between rounds of COVID, let’s not blame the flight attendants who are trying to control increasingly unruly passengers and being professional at the same time. They have to deal with loud drunks and people complaining about crying babies, as though you could unplug them like so many screaming phones. There is no silent mode for babies. They may cry from Raleigh to Rome, and there’s not much anyone can do about it. Maybe that’s why the drunks get drunker.

A former flight attendant I know said that flying is a test of people’s character. Most are the same at 30,000 feet as they are on solid ground. People who constantly complain about everything will do it up above or down below.

When we finally arrive at our destination in travel stained clothes, we see why we’ve come: There is the smile and the wave from the loved ones, waiting all this time for our delayed flight. Though we’re in Telluride, our luggage is back in Denver, 360 miles away. It will arrive tomorrow. Or the next day. Or we’ll sleep in borrowed clothes. But we’re here. We made it. And that’s the point.

Contact Beth Thames at [email protected]