I wasn’t always afraid of flying. When I was younger, I flew to Europe alone. No nerves, no second thoughts. I didn’t notice the bumps. I just watched a movie. It wasn’t until later, after kids, that the fear started.

I remember a flight to Reno. Clear skies, nothing unusual. The pilot said they’d stop in-flight service early because of the mountains and wind waves. I didn’t think much about it until the plane started dropping. Not gentle shifts, but real drops. I gripped the armrests, then the seat in front of me.

My wife looked calm, maybe even enjoying it. I stared at her. Was this normal? Are we supposed to accept being suspended in the sky, pretending not to think about falling? What was I even scared of? I knew the plane wasn’t going to crash, that turbulence doesn’t bring planes down. But that didn’t matter. Something in me cracked.

From then on I felt out of control. Even at home I dreaded the next vacation, the next flight. I obsessed over it. Every bump, every thought of it. I couldn’t shake it. I hated myself for it. Middle-aged man, wife, kids, and I’m white-knuckling like a child.

I knew it was irrational, but that didn’t help. I read the books, tried the tricks, even went to therapy. Nothing stuck. I was ashamed, like I had some disease of the mind I couldn’t admit.

But not on this train. On this train I feel good. The ground is under me. The rhythm makes sense.

I wish America had trains. Real trains. Damn the politicians. Damn the airplane lobbies. I love traveling, but I hate flying. I can’t do it.

Getting here to Spain was a miracle. I forced myself, but it cost me. I wasted myself on the way.