by KAHLA PRESTON
There are many things I dread about air travel: stomach-churning turbulence, nothing to watch except endless Simpsons reruns, or the mere thought of being propelled through the air in a contraption that should not physically be able to fly.
Then there are the assortment of fellow passengers the airplane gods have in store; a collective of perfect strangers who have the potential to make 12 hours in a plane seem like 12 years.
It’s just like Russian roulette only with far more dire consequences if you lose – you might be seated with The Drooler, The Incessant Talker or, if you’re really lucky, The Motion Sickness Sufferer (unfortunately, that’s me – sorry).
One category of passenger elicits a wince from even the most seasoned of jetsetters: The Baby. We’ve all suffered through a flight – or a bus or train trip – to the soundtrack of a little one’s cries. And screams. And cries.
Of course, I know they can’t help it and I always feel sorry for their parents while simultaneously wishing they had caught a different flight. But when all you want to do is settle in, eat your vacuum-sealed meal and watch Ryan Gosling’s latest movie in peace, the only thing worse than sitting near a screaming baby would be sitting near two screaming babies.