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MARCO WERMAN: You may remember an interview we ran last week. We spoke with a Russian banker named Max. He was on an Aeroflot flight about to take off from Moscow en route to New York. Here's Max, explaining what happened next.

MAX: We get in the plane. The doors are shut. The plane sort of pushes off, and the pilot goes on the PA, making his normal announcement except that he can't really say anything ‘cause he's slurring words. First he does it in Russian; it sounds very bad. It sounds like he's intoxicated. And then he tries to do it in English, and he can't even sort of tie two words together. At that moment, all the passengers start sort of looking at each other and saying, “Have you felt like the pilot was drunk?”

WERMAN: The passengers didn't just sit there, though. They got up, got organized, and got the pilot booted off the plane. We asked you to tell us about your own flying nightmares. Bill Coladonato told us about a flight he took over to Ireland. He wrote, “I noticed that the paneling on the inside of the plane had buckled and I could see behind to the insulation. I was a little worried since I had never seen such a defect on a plane, so I called the flight attendant over. After showing her what I had discovered, she replied, “Oh, that should be the least of your worries!” I'm sure she meant it like “Don't worry” but her word choice made me feel, “Oh, the plane is in way worse shape than you can ever imagine!” Luckily I was able to get a drink once we took off, so I was able to “not worry.”

Another listener, Elizabeth Vann from Brockton, Massachusetts, emailed us with her adventure. “When I was about 7, 1971 or 2, my parents and I were booked from London Gatwick to New York with a charter agency called Deadalus Air. It went belly up, leading to instant re-christening: Icarus Air. Most of the passengers were college students with very limited resources, so they all simply stayed in Gatwick and kind of camped out there. The situation went on for days and days with increasing press coverage and pressure. Finally, the Wimpy Hamburger Restaurant paid to fly all these Americans out of there. The passengers had by then totally bonded. It was the strangest flight ever, like an airborne mix of Woodstock, teach-in, and protracted Wimpy's advert. But the best part? Instead of flying that afternoon, my father took me to the movies. We saw a double feature of “Hard Day's Night” and “A Yellow Submarine.” Thanks for jogging my memory.” And thank you for sharing your tales of woe. Let us know what's on your mind. Send your emails to theworld@pri.org. Again, that's theworld, one word, @pri.org Let us know where you are and how we should pronounce your name.

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