I’ve got eight seconds to decide whether I jump on that flight, or wait for the next available one nearly a full day later. In my mind, I’m scanning through my options, rapid-fire, like a spinning rolodex. Do I take that last seat, knowing the only reason it’s been offered to me is that I’m traveling alone? Or do… [Keep reading…]
I was supposed to spend the first night of my trip to Scotland in a window seat on an airplane hovering somewhere thousands of feet over the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, I was huddled in a corner somewhere near gate C90 in Newark Airport. How the hell did this happen?