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By Russell Working
When trains shut down, when planes don't fly, when Russians are stranded anywhere, they are always ready with a bottle of vodka or sweet Moldavian wine. On a train, they squeeze into a coupe and dig out whatever food they have -- sausage, bread, cucumbers, candy -- as happened last summer when my train full of shuttle traders was stalled for four hours on the Chinese border. On a plane, they fold down the middle seat and spread out a newspaper, on which they lay their dried fish or salo, a substance that handy for absorbing headline ink and images of Primakov. If a foreigner is in their midst, he will be grilled about his homeland. The glass will remain miraculously full, however often he polishes it off and makes clear that this is really his last drink. Eventually, some will doze. Some may even sing. The attitude is: Why get exercised? The plane will either fly or not fly. I can't change that, but I can celebrate with my fellow man in the meantime. I thought of this on Sunday when returning from a visit to my parents in Santa Barbara, California. I had spent the holiday reflecting on the strengths of America: French roast coffee, sales clerks who don't roll their eyes at you, a vigorous system of checks and balances that keeps citizens informed about presidential stains on intern's dresses. But as I waited for takeoff on a United Airlines jet, I couldn't help thinking of another side of the American experience. We're whiners. We were heading to San Francisco, and only one runway was open in that foggy city. The pilot announced an hour's delay. Then a second. And a third. I figured everyone felt the way I did. You can't change the weather, but if you travel, you live with the possibility of delays. But I soon became aware of an undercurrent of fury on the plane. "Unbelievable!" snarled a man with frizzy hair. A woman told a stewardess, "This is unacceptable. Can't you see my children are exhausted?" The pilot tried in vain to calm us: "Folks, we're sorry about the delay, but really, it's not the flight attendants' fault." In the end, the flight was canceled, and the passengers stomped off. As United scrambled to reroute us the next day, the frizzy man shouted, "I don't care whose fault it is. You'll never get my business again." It was 11 p.m. Passengers lugged their bags to the curb. They crowded into cabs and headed back to the city where the electricity always works, where the faucets always gush, where everyone is paid on time. Angry. Muttering into cell phones. Struggling with the question that has vexed mankind since Job: Can God really be good in a world where trips to San Francisco are delayed?
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