At a book festival in Sicily, admiring a tranquil lifestyle and remembering a father's bedtime stories about drunks and prostitutes, based on his time spent Irgun gun-running at Italy's southern tip
The pleasant-voiced captain apologizes again over the loudspeaker. The plane was scheduled to take off two hours earlier and we still haven't left. "Our crew still hasn't been able to determine the problem with the plane, so we need to ask our passengers to disembark. We will update you as soon as we can."
The skinny young guy sitting next to me says, "It's me. I did it. When we got on the plane, I talked to my wife on my cell, remember? She told me she was on the way to the beach with our daughter and the baby. I'm sitting here with my safety belt buckled, and all I can think about is, why the hell am I going to Italy? Instead of spending Saturday with my wife and daughters, why am I flying six hours, including a connecting flight, for some hour-long meeting my boss said was important? I hope the plane breaks down. I swear, that's what I thought; I hope the plane breaks down, and look what happened."
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