J. G. Ballard's Crash is proving to be an unexpectedly delightful read for air travel. It's giving my rising misanthropy something to focus on.
(I don't really have any right-- aside from general dislike of crowds, and the senile couple who insisted on an off-menu order at Frontera Tortas-- to be misanthropic. My flight's been easy so far, and I should be home in a few hours.)