Oh how true, mahalo.
My oldest son squirms and mopes in his economy class seat, flouncing like a 1920’s film starlet and sighing deeply enough to drive a small wind turbine. He’s bored. He’s been on this stinking plane for almost an hour, and he wants off.
Some perspective: We’re on the second of two 1 1/2-hour hopscotch flights to Spain, on our way to visit the picturesque Mediterranean seaside town in which we will soon be privileged to live. The ride is smooth, the temperature in the plane comfortable, the view from the window of the French Alps piercing a pristine carpet of cloud. We’ve just come from the Business Lounge of the Zurich airport, one of those rarified spaces reserved for those fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to rack up ungodly air miles, where we sat in plush leather seats and ate free gourmet food prepared and served by people who may…
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