Kenya
I have hated flying since 1989, when I was in a Boeing 737 that crashed into an Ethiopian mountain, lost its wings and burst into flames. Surviving that one was followed by years of pre-check-in heavy drinking. As if that were not enough, I now suffer this wrenching guilt about all the carbon I emit on my frequent long-haul flights. And my recent journey home from Mongolia to Africa was a 48-hour nightmare. I felt like an astronaut. I departed Ulan Bator loaded with souvenirs: a horn and sinew bow with a 40-lb pull and six arrows, cashmere and camel hair, pebbles from the Gobi desert and a very large quantity of Genghis Khan vodka. The Mongolians, I discovered, consume 60 million bottles of vodka per month. Given that there are just 2.5 million Mongolians, including women and children, this is impressive.
On the first flight to Beijing I made sure I was in the aisle EXIT row adjacent to the wing, which I reckon is the best place to be if you want to survive a crash.
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