Flying High on Anxiety: A Mile-High Misadventure

In which our brave author endures the perils of turbulence, coffee carts, and the silent terror of trusting a stranger with their life—36,000 feet above solid ground.

As I write these very words, I’m crammed into a Boring 737-800 somewhere between Hamburg and the rest of Germany —36,000 feet above sea level. It’s 6:58 a.m., exactly 18 minutes post-takeoff, and I’m counting every second.

To be totally honest, I hate flying—or rather, I hate being flown. That's the crux of my particular strain of aerophobia, which I’ve lovingly dubbed “acute mistrust.”

Some random person I don’t know—who’s undoubtedly just as exhausted as I am at this ungodly hour—is about 8 meters away from me, quite literally controlling my life. And all I know about this person is their name. Why? So I can break the news to his mother when he screws up? If I were flying the plane, that’d be a whole different story. But the closest I’ve ever come to piloting anything is crashing a Learjet into the ocean—on my laptop, in Microsoft Flight Simulator, a game that promises would-be pilots they’ll “soar through the skies.” Sure.

Notice how I’m avoiding the topic? Maybe it’s because I’ve realized that writing this is basically free therapy. My coffee is wobbling a little in its cup, likely due to the turbulence shaking the entire plane. Nothing to worry about. Except the flight attendants have vanished to their seats in seconds, which—again—apparently isn’t cause for concern.

The very thought that I’m floating 36,000 feet—nearly 12 kilometers, which is twice as far as my morning commute—above anything that could stop me from plummeting back to Earth makes me… a bit uneasy. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not the kind of guy who grabs a passing stewardess with a sweaty, crazed grip and begs for Valium. But I’ve never quite gotten used to the whole “let’s put our lives in the hands of a stranger and hope for the best” scenario.

The irony? I used to *love* flying as a kid. Sitting by the window was a dream come true. Now, I’d die a slow, painful death before even glancing out one of those tiny windows. You know the ones—the kind that look like they might pop out any minute, sucking us into the sky like in every disaster movie ever made. Speaking of which, disaster movies are probably why I have trust issues with pilots. Take *Cast Away* for instance—Tom Hanks survives the crash, sure, but the next several years he spends as a disheveled, volleyball-befriending Robinson Crusoe kind of ruin the whole “surviving” part for me. These days, anything more than 10 meters off the ground makes me nervous.

51 minutes in.

So far, no crash. The flight attendants are back, rolling their little beverage carts down the aisle. Now, if you’re an aisle-seater like me, you know the real danger isn’t turbulence—it’s dozing off only to have your arm crushed by one of those mini-bars. It’s a special kind of pain, waking up because your pinky got smashed by a coffee cart.

“No breakfast for me, thanks,” I tell the attendant, who looks at me like I just confessed to a major crime. “No breakfast?” she repeats, as if checking that I’m truly committed to this life-altering decision. Did I mention it’s barely 7 a.m.? Even the idea of eating breakfast, let alone the sad, mass-produced excuse for food they serve on planes, feels like a distant fantasy. Nepal to Chicago distant. But I’ll take coffee, thanks—and, in a thrilling plot twist, I’m asked if I want a cold beverage to go with it. Unbelievable! For once, I don’t feel like a national moocher for politely begging the airline for a sip of water.

74 minutes in.

The overhead TV is playing some old Disney cartoons—naturally, without sound. And no, I’m not going to buy those awful in-flight headphones. I’ve already got a collection of them at home, and nobody in the history of flying has ever reused their in-flight headphones. No one.

Meanwhile, my nasal passages are being dried to the consistency of the Sahara Desert by the vent above me, which hisses just enough to remind me it’s working. My seatmate is restless, probably gearing up to ask me to get up so he can enjoy the luxurious facilities that are the airplane bathroom.

I’ve just done the uncoolest thing a frequent flyer can do: I glanced at the safety card. Have you noticed how the people on those emergency diagrams always look like they’re commuting to work on the subway? Their expressions are so dead, “apathetic” seems too emotional a description. Let’s be real—if this plane nosedives, I’m not crawling down the aisle with a calm, blank face like it’s another Tuesday. Also, why do we get life vests under every seat but not a single parachute onboard? Is that some kind of weird nautical tradition? And what good is a life vest going to do me on a flight from Hamburg to Munich? Will it save me from drowning in one of Germany’s famous inland seas?

97 minutes in.

The passenger in front of me has discovered the recline button and, predictably, immediately used it. All the way back, of course. I get it, you paid good money for this flight, so you want to be comfy. Guess I’ll just give up my legroom for the remainder of this journey. No big deal.

My seatmate returns, looking victorious. We execute the awkward seat shuffle with all the grace of synchronized hippos. And now, a flight attendant hands out chocolate—finally, something that makes sense. Just as I’m losing hope, I hear the sound of the seatbelt sign pinging on. Thank God, we’re not about to plunge into the ocean or anything. It’s just that magical moment when the plane starts descending and the flight is almost over.

Thank you, Peter Schuster—our pilot. I made sure to remember his name, just in case I survive and need to find his mom.