T A B L E+T A L K Japan: A reader asks for advice on an upcoming visit in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk A L S O +T O D A Y Remembering an Everest hero By Suzette Lalime Death of an Everest hero: Anatoli Boukreev R E C E N T L Y Luzviminda By Richard Sterling A tale of lust and illusion (01/15/98) Nagano: Not ready for prime time By Eric Gower Hundreds of thousands of athletes and fans are about to descend -- so where's the Olympics fever? (01/14/98) Nigerian nightmare By Jeffrey Tayler A death-defying bus adventure (01/13/98) Road Warrior By Dawn MacKeen Frequent flyer guru Randy Peterson shares his secrets (01/12/98) In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great By Michael Wood Tracking Alexander the Great through the Hindu Kush (01/08/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Wanderlust feature archive - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - WHAT COULD GO WRONG ON A SIMPLE NEW YORK-TO-LOS ANGELES FLIGHT? JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING! Editor's note: In the tale below, Salon staffer Dawn MacKeen recalls her recent holiday flight from hell on Tower Air. But it would be unfair to single out Tower Air in this regard -- as all wanderlusters know, the occasional flight from hell is not restricted to any particular airline. Do you have a favorite Bad Trip tale to share? Send it to us at wanderlust@salonmagazine.com. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY DAWN MacKEEN | Most of us really didn't have another option. It was the holiday season, the price was right and other airlines were booked. Tower Air, known for its cheap, cheap tickets, was our salvation -- it would take us from New York to Los Angeles without leaving us completely broke. We would leave JFK at 8 a.m. and arrive -- supposedly -- at LAX at 10:45 a.m. California time. That morning, when I arrived at Tower's terminal, which sits west of the main airport, I was greeted with its motto: "Tower Air: More than a great fare." In retrospect, I could never accuse them of false advertising -- more is definitely what I and my 400-plus fellow passengers got. My descent into airline hell started while I was slouched in a chair in the passenger lounge, waiting to board. Our flight had already been delayed for two hours, so when a voice finally came over the loudspeaker and announced the boarding of Flight 21 to L.A., everyone popped out of their seats and hustled over to the X-ray machines -- where we waited, collectively shifting from one foot to the other. After we had stood there for about a half hour, it started. First it was a little nudge forward, like a harmless tap from behind. Then it grew into an outright push. The crowd of passengers, once in a blissful post-vacation trance, became a mob surging toward the metal detectors. "When are we going to board? You called us all here to board," voices shouted. We, the peasants, were all going to topple the Tower Air regime and demand what was rightfully ours: a flight to L.A. When we finally made it through the metal detectors, we were stopped once again and made to wait in front of our designated gate. "This is comical," someone said, "there's not even a plane on the other side of this gate." We couldn't dwell on that minor detail for very long, however, because of what happened next -- what we, the survivors of Flight 21, like to call The Fight. Three young men, instantly dubbed by a fellow passenger as the Street Punks, moved to the front of the crowd and slightly pushed a man in his 40s who was already a little testy. Their leader, Street Punk No. 1, was the one who had blazed the trail -- past the kids, past the senior citizens, past the college students trying to return to school. Standing about 6-foot-4, with slicked-back dark brown hair and a thin line of a beard that followed only the curve of his jawbone, he wore a black leather jacket and blue jeans -- and had the look of someone you don't mess with. His cohorts, one pudgy guy with stringy, greasy hair and the other with a shaved head and a shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest and several pounds of gold necklaces, stood behind him. "Who do you think you are?" said the older man, who was nondescript in that baked potato kind of way. Even his baseball hat looked like it needed to be pulled down a little on his head so it wouldn't fall off. "I can go wherever I want to go. And what," Street Punk No. 1 said as he looked down on the guy, "are you going to do about it?" The two started to shove each other. The rest of us, who were already squished in a 15-foot-wide hallway, moved as far as we could away from them. The bland guy yelled, "Can I get a policeman over here?" repeatedly while Street Punk No. 1 imitated him in a high-pitched, seventh-grade whine: "Can I get a policeman over here? Oh, I'm scared, oh, Mr. Policeman! Please come quick!" N E X T+P A G E+| She's down for the count!