kylie gusset

Cramped in my tiny seat, I sat beside two suits on their way to Amsterdam to do SERIOUS business.

Do you remember those sketches from 'A bit of Fry and Laurie', about the two hapless businessmen Peter and John and the never visible 'Marjorie', talking bullshit bingo avant la lettre?

Well, it was them. Peter and John. The Irish version.

The younger one talked incessantly.

'You know, Tony, I think we can do some DAMN good business with this guy in Amsterdam. I feel it. And I don't mean just business. No. DAMN GOOD business.'

One and a half hours of this talk. And I was trying to sleep. I could have rammed the lifesuit down his throat.

He was an ugly little runt too, not at all suave and sexy like Stephen Fry.

OK, maybe he doesn't look it, but trust me, Stephen Fry is suave and sexy.

caroline

Without their money, they wouldn't let me on the plane. Five different credit card numbers, all good, but they had one system, no backup.

I made it very clear that this was a literal case of life and death, that if my father didn't make it through the night and I missed seeing him again I would call every single journalist friend I had and tell the best story of corporate heartlessness they've ever heard, and I would name names. Now and then a gate flunky would pick up a phone and call someone, but there was never any progress. The plane was nearly an hour late as it waited for a backup pilot. I spent that hour staring out the glass at it, knowing there was an empty seat that might be my last chance to see my dad and these people couldn't, no wouldn't, let me in it.

My most memorable flight was the one I wasn't on.

I got enough cash as the night went on, and got on the first redeye. Changing in Dallas at 4am, the place seemed crushingly quiet. Nashville as the sun came up; Dad had made it, and even woke up. The doctor was shocked. Some airline employees missed getting their names smeared across a lot of newspapers. That night, they got the breathing tube out and we talked for a lot longer than you're usually allowed to stay in an ICU. It should have been a sign; six hours later his heart took off, over-running the machine keeping him alive, and they couldn't bring him back.

I've flown twice since then, to clean out his house, sell his furniture, pick out momentoes. My fear of flying now has an empty sadness to go with it. I arrange my life so I can drive, if it's in North America. It's better that way; you can blast your music, pick your own food and seatmates, open a window. And after an hour at LAX staring at a plane I couldn't get on, I don't want to ever be in that much of a hurry again.

Otto Kitsinger {otto@detailedfiles.com}

I'd been at some job interviews for a dream position in a dream company in Boston. They went well, and I flew home full of hope, tinged with sadness that I was leaving Boston once again.

I haven't heard yet whether they'll hire me. "I know it's been a long time since November, but you have a good chance, even now". We'll see.

The hope is still there, that one day soon I'll get to fly there and with a work visa, take that dream job and start a new life out west.

Tom Cosgrave {tom@tomcosgrave.com}

Except that you're in a completely different city or country.

But my last flight was kinda crappy...I was leaving someplace where I had had a lot of fun and returning home...to work and all that entails. I've got another flight in about an hour and a half....I think this one will be better.

jason

We reveled in cultural differences. We ate croissants and escargot in Paris, and bangers and mash in London. We saw every art museum we could get to - they made us cry in wonderment.

Beauty surrounded us everywhere we looked.

We dreamed of a life in an European Metropolis - Cosmopolitan and Urbane.

But in the end, we came home. To our small, unsophisticated town. It’s provincial and uncultured – but there is beauty here too.

And hey, we may still move to a Europe. ‘Cause they say it’s never to late...

Ian Murphy {see-ian@correspondence.net}