Don’t get excited.  I’m not talking about THAT Lebanon, the one famous for its cedar trees, its civil war, its refugee camps, and one of my favorite red wines, Chateau Musar.  I’m talking about Lebanon, New Hampshire, a more tranquil and – let’s be honest – altogether less exciting place.

I recently boarded the smallest plane I’ve ever traveled in – a nine-seat Cessna 402 – for the short flight from White Plains NY to Lebanon NH.  Guess what?  I learned something.  I learned that after 30+ years traveling around the world and probably tens of millions of miles of air travel, I hate small aircraft.  When it comes to matters of aviation, I’ve decided big is beautiful.  If someone builds an airplane the size of a city block, I’ll buy a ticket.  Just don’t ask me to fly in small planes.  Why?  Because when I’m flying I like to pretend I’m not flying, and that’s not possible in a Cessna.  Everything about the experience – every sight, every sound, every movement – reminds me that I’m doing something no one should be doing.  Flying.

It didn’t help that I left White Plains on a very stormy day.  I’m tempted to compare the take-off and landing to those nauseating roller coaster rides I used to loathe as a kid, but that wouldn’t be true.  When your stomach lurches on a roller coaster ride, the lurching is predictable.  You know when the feeling is coming and can prepare for it.  That wasn’t the case with my recent Cessna experience.  Just when I felt we were in for a period of settled air, the plane would shift violently left, right, up, or down in no predictable pattern.  Horrible.  The other thing I learned: I don’t want to watch pilots close-up.  I want them hidden behind a locked door, their magic and mystery intact and invisible to me.  I don’t need to see alarmingly young pilots grappling with the controls or looking bored.  I’m like one of those pre-Vatican 2 Catholics: I don’t need to see the priest’s performance to understand its significance.  Give me the mystique, not the reality.