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Until now, I’ve never spoken about what happened on December 10th, 1992. I was thirteen and in Logan airport, traveling as an unaccompanied minor to spend Christmas in Paris with my father and his new, post-divorce family. I pressed my face against the cold glass of Terminal E and watched the snow swirl around the runway lights like tiny ghosts. The nor’easter blowing in would be one for the history books, with a massive blizzard and flooding along the coast. I was parked in a seat in the terminal with cigarette smoke hanging lazily overhead. Three seats down a seemingly ancient businessman (likely my age, now) in a rumpled suit fidgeted with his cigarette and a small silver flask.
My flight was boarding at 9:23pm. The first sign of trouble was about an hour before that. "Ladies and gentlemen," crackled the voice over the intercom, "Northwest 47 to Paris has been delayed until further notice due to weather conditions."
The businessman sprang to the counter and I laughed; he reminded me of the Ru
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