My uncle explained how he had been very scared when the plane reached cruising altitude and the ground was no longer in sight, and how they served a lot more food on the plane than he was used to eating at home.
I loved my grandfather very much and was very saddened by his death. So great was my respect for him that one whole chapter of my book, ‘Grandson of the Tin House’, is devoted entirely to him. But I was 17 when he died, and on my first flight, and the adrenalin pumping through my body was fueled as much by curiosity as by grief. When was the earth going to fade from view? Could a plane lose its way among the clouds? What were they going to serve us to eat? It would be a disgrace if I didn’t admit right now that those were the questions racing through my head as I remembered my dear grandpa with tearful eyes.
The plane took off. Slobbering copious tears, my mother, who like me was flying for the first time—I think my father had flown before—suddenly stopped, turned to my father and said, “Emin, what if we crash!”, leaving no mistake as to her priorities among the people near and dear to her!