I sat still, silently sifting through a book of my latest photos. There was a scarlet ibis I captured last week on my Cape May trip, and a rare painted bunting everyone was raving about in Central Park.
    "Cookie?" Asked the passenger on the left of me. Outstretched on her palm was a perfectly welded oreo.
    "No thank you," I murmured. After the "five-star" handcrafted Aleutian seafood I had back at departure, I won't eat for a week. I laid back in the seat, and shut my eyes. The airplane was rocking like a boat. It's been like this since takeoff, as the plane nears the Russian line it got more and more turbulent.
    I made a mistake trying Aleutian ginger ale. Oh, and never eat the scones either.
    Many Aleutian foods later, Attu Island was in sight. The landing was comprised of a torrential rainfall and possibly an ash cloud. It became so bad the bags tore out of their restraints and rained indoors. I got a kick out of it, watching the flight attendants frantically shuffling back-and-forth, just putting the seat belts back on the pesky bags.
    The airport wasn't an airport. It was one building, barely the size of a single-family home.