Did My Mama Like to Dance? [antikvár]

INTRODUCTION When I think of life with my mother, I remember flying. As children, my younger sister and I spent a lot of time on planes and in airports with either one or both of my parents. But it's flying that reminds me of my mother. On Swissair one year, my sister and I, no more than six and nine, were traveling to India with my mother, via Geneva. My mother had somehow arranged for us to have an extra seat attached to our row, second from the bulkhead, so that we could stretch out and sleep more comfortably. Once we were airborne, she politely repeated this request, only to be told that such a thing was not possible. "Why not?" she asked. "The agent said this would be arranged." "Sorry, but there isn't room." The attendant was right. The aisle of the DC-10 was narrow. My mother pressed her lips together. She had made her decision to fly Swissair and stop in Geneva based on this extra seat. Why were they telling her otherwise? Her pale face taut, she made a big show of rearranging our things, moving the stuff xiii