Horror stories about flying are as common as fleas on Osama. Since 9-11, scary headlines have made airports sound like the Bataan Death March with lost luggage.

        It's not that bad.

        The airlines may be too broke to serve those food-like substances anymore, but on our three-hour flight they generously gave each passenger several peanuts.

        I was worried when they yanked me out of line and took my shoes, but they gave them back as soon as they found they couldn't sell used Kmart slip-ons.

        And don't believe that stuff about “nobody is flying anymore.” The line for the metal detectors stretched from Columbus to the outskirts of Delta, where fares are somewhat higher (multiply by 12 and add $700).
       

Fly for peanuts

        When our flight was overbooked, they offered a first-class ticket on Greyhound and free deluxe peanuts to anyone who would agree to be “bumped” before we took off. As we were pushing the airliner out to the runway to avoid exceeding our fuel ration, the co- pilot decided to take the offer, so it must have been a pretty good deal.

        Yeah, I've seen the stories about people gnawing through their seat belts and attacking flight attendants with rolled-up SkyMall magazines. Maybe passengers are a bit more squirrelly these days. But how could you possibly tell?

        Since Orville tried to elbow Wilbur out of the way at the Kitty Hawk baggage claim, people have been acting weird around airports. Normal, well-adjusted adults get within two miles of a departure gate and immediately get the darting-eyes and herky-jerky spastic look of a hamster injected with a Starbucks Big Gulp Turboccino.

        I think it may have something to do with the innate human fear of being strapped into a sealed cigar tube for three hours with crying kids and guys who cough like Doc Holliday at the OK Corral.
       

Coyote town

        This year, we planned our spring break in Tucson, which has Florida's sunshine without enough water for shark attacks. The Old Pueblo has been spreading like prickly pear since we left 10 years ago, but it still leads the nation in skin-puncturing plants, scary spiders, mountain views and guys named Chuy.

        Its flavor is carne seca — spicy beef sunbaked as dry as a lizard's breath. Its colors are the bottomless blue of a cloudless sky and the dusty green of wild sage. The perfume is an intoxicating blend of orange blossoms and laurel. The desert's song is a warbling quail.

        It's a coyote of a town, wild, shaggy, clever and adaptable to anything. It's not as safe as pedigreed Cincinnati. But it doesn't chase its tail and yap-yap-yap about race problems.

        Blacks, whites and Hispanics have learned to coexist in the desert, making more than the sum of the parts. Cincinnati is still broadcasting in black and white, suspicious of anyone “different.” We need a takeout order of Hispanic immigration.

        “Put your seat backs in the upright position and remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop,” the flight attendant said as we landed. “And don't forget to pick up your baggage of race conflict,” I thought.

        “Welcome to Cincinnati.”

        E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com, or phone 768-8301.

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