T A B L E_T A L K Is Colombia the Yugoslavia of Latin America? Join a conversation in Table Talk's International Issues area   How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Going without at Ramadan By Emily Zuzik At the beginning of the Muslim fast, a traveler decides to do as the Marrakeshans do (03/30/99) Mediterranean reverie By Anne Dowie Nestled in the rugged mountains overlooking the Ligurian Sea, Cinque Terre is the source of endless scenic and culinary delights (03/28/99) Ring in the loser By Mark Schatzker What you do on New Year's Eve 1999 says more about your economic -- and social -- status than anything else (03/26/99) Night of the living kava By Eric Hansen A traveler trips out on a magical root in the South Pacific (03/25/99) May I help you? By Jack Goldfarb From saffron to leather to edible silver paper, Johnny the market boy knew where to find it in the teeming Calcutta marketplace (03/24/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		For really getting to know someone, there's nothing like a 10-hour flight where everything that can go wrong does. BY ROSEMARY BERKELEY | "When did the bossy boys seize control of U.S. carriers?" I ask my husband at the start of our flight. The flight attendant stands at the front of the steerage class section, hands on hips, and shouts, "People, we're not going anywhere until you take your seats." He then brushes by a pregnant woman holding an infant and a diaper bag, struggling to put one of them in the overhead bin. "Suck it in, honey," he says as he wiggles his way past her. "I know I'm going to be suicidal by the end of this," I mutter. "Calm down," my new husband, Chris, says. "It's not that bad." We are en route to our honeymoon. No, wait. What's more ghastly is that I guess we are now officially on our honeymoon. And if we're on our honeymoon, shouldn't things be a lot more romantic? I daresay that anyone who has flown more than a handful of times has probably been on a flight like the one that took us to our honeymoon destination -- a flight where everything goes wrong. A flight where you almost want the plane to crash in order to end the misery. Maybe you were one of my seatmates. Or maybe you were the guy in front of me, the one who somehow managed to recline his seat during takeoff without getting caught, the one who kept it reclined for the entire 10-hour flight. The one who got up looking rested -- which is surprising, given the volume of your snoring -- and ready to meet the challenges of the day. "No, I mean it," I say. "What's that Dorothy Parker poem I love? The one about all the different ways to kill yourself. It starts out with razors -- 'Razors pain you. Rivers are damp. Acids stain you' -- I forget what's next." "Airline seats cause cramp," Chris says. "No, drugs cause cramp," I say. "Do you have any drugs, by chance?" "Oh, sure. I've got a bag of heroin duct-taped to my belly," Chris says. Sarcasm is never a good thing on a honeymoon, especially when it occurs at the start of a 10-hour flight. If you want to get to know someone -- really know them -- you simply must fly together. Never mind dating. Time spent thigh-to-thigh in a dark movie theater isn't going to reveal the nitty-gritty about a person. Nor will breaking some naan together in that adorable Indian restaurant around the corner from his apartment. Nor will meeting each other's families when everyone is on their best Cleaver family behavior. In fact, I think the government should do away with marriage licenses and blood tests. Henceforth, all people intending to trot down the aisle together should be required to first stagger down a jetway, bent under the weight of their carry-on items. If they still want to get married when the flight is over -- if they've become allies, rather than turning on each other like a couple of frenzied dingoes snarling over possession of a sheep's head, then OK. They can do it. They can get married. Having recently lived in Asia (and I don't like to brag, but I've also seen "Seven Years in Tibet" twice), I try, as much as possible, to live in the moment. But minutes into this flight, I realize that -- Dalai Lama be damned -- getting out of the moment, ignoring the moment, is key to survival. I decide to block out the presence of all human life other than Chris. I pretend that the head of the guy seated in front of me, the head now in my lap, is a cute furry animal that I love very much. I smile at the young couple next to me when I notice they have lowered their tray tables and placed their infant son on them. I elbow Chris as they undress the baby and whisk off his diaper. I feign fascination in my book while the baby and all of his baby parts lay on the little tray table, exposed for all to see. (Just what is one to do in such a situation? Say something like, "My, what a well-hung little boy you've got there!") Then something -- a water mark, thin but undeniably there -- rat-a-tat-tats its way across the pages of my book, ending with a firm, steady stream as it finds my hand. "Whoops," the baby's father says. "Sorry about that. Is that your first golden shower?" "Oh boy. I guess my wedding ring is christened now," I chuckle. I wonder if the baby's parents would be offended if I get up to wash my hands. Then I wonder how I have become the kind of person who worries about the feelings of people who seem unconcerned when their progeny pisses on you, an unsuspecting stranger. "Chris," I say, "let me out." Chris is laughing so hard he is unable to lift his legs to let me out of my seat. I put my dry hand on his head and fight my way past. I make it to the aisle, and look to see where the restrooms are. But the queen of the skies is a mere six feet away, and in front of him is the most unwieldy transport device known to man: the airline food cart. I look at him, he looks at me, and then he says, "Look out, sweetheart, or I'm going to rrrrun you over." "Can I get by you?" I ask. "Honey, you're a big girl," he says. "Can't you hold it?" I wipe my hand on my jeans and sit back down. I suppose it's only right that the passing out of peanuts and four ounces of soda takes precedence over one passenger's squeamish need to get baby pee off her hand. N E X T+P A G E | "Might as well live"