It’s a fourteen-hour flight from New York to Tokyo. It feels
supernatural: there’s a hush after takeoff, like all passengers realize at once how long we’ll be in the air.
On any flight, by the time I’m seated I think I’m in the city that I’m going to. I’m in Tucson, I’ll text to somebody before liftoff in Chicago. Even on a transatlantic flight, I’m in Berlin when they start making announcements in German.
Not to Japan. To Japan, when you reach approximate London distance you’re not halfway there.
They give you a little kit—in economy, not just in business class—with the tiny tube of toothpaste, pen for forms, earplugs: you need supplies.
One of the entertainment channels was a feed from the underside of the plane. A plane on a parallel path flew beneath us—I was half-asleep and thought it was an animation. It was with us for a few minutes, then banked and flew away.