By David Draper
On Tuesday, I will join the masses of post-holiday travelers subjected to the whims of the TSA, the airline industry and the remnants of a blizzard. I’m still surprised people, including myself, pay for this privilege, but until we get personal jetpacks or bullet trains, it remains the quickest way between points A and B most of the time.
In this column from The Atlantic, Corky White takes up the familiar complaint regarding the food, or lack thereof, airlines subject their passengers to:
“... on this very plane on which I sit on my way to Tokyo, there is a slab of this horrendous stuff on my black plastic tray, trying to hide under an equally doubtful pile of stuffing mix. It is punky pinky white inside, bouncy, uniform, and—the telltale sign that we're all going to the demnition bow-wows—it's moist. No actual chicken breast served in economy class is moist inside: the shreds are dry and overcooked. The shriveled hard green peas next to it were by contrast consolingly "natural." I held the chicken up on my plastic fork to investigate it as a steward came by. "Is there anything wrong?"