Grumble, grumble. It was a bad morning around the breakfast table at the Hilton near Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. There were three crews altogether. Two of us pilots were billeted at the nearby Holiday Inn, definitely not to be confused with a Ritz-Carlton, and we’d driven over to join the others. It was a cold February morning, still snowing and cold, cold, cold.
Welcome to the Part 135 rituals and conceits. Our laments have a predictable, almost formulaic sound to them. We no longer enjoy breakfast vouchers at some hotels, now that the company has renegotiated various contracts. I never had a breakfast voucher in my life before now, but miss them I do. In fact, for 40 years I got up at 5:45 a.m., ate a bowl of Raisin Bran and went to work. Day after day, I tracked the same interstate route to work, driving at high speed alongside other commuters, each of whom was familiar with the traffic. We knew exactly which lane we wanted. I was a surgeon then, and I came home every night: sometimes very late, but always home.
