Several e-mailers raised this same complaint, and I see your point. Noise levels on planes aren't nearly as excessive as those in terminals, but come to think of it, there is an awful lot of yammering going on. There can be up to a half-dozen cabin P.A.s before your plane even reaches the runway, sometimes in multiple languages. Is this really necessary?

To some of these announcements we grant a pass. Surely there's nothing out of line about a brief welcome-aboard speech, for example, or other practical reminders. However, if there is one hideous and glaring example of excess, it has to be the pre-departure safety briefing. Is there anything more tedious?

In America, commercial flying is governed by a vast tome known as the Federal Aviation Regulations, or FARs -- an enormous, frequently unintelligible volume that personifies aviation's flair for the ridiculously arcane. Of its crown jewels, none is a more glittering example than the safety briefing -- 25 seconds of useful information hammered into six minutes of prolix rigmarole so weighed down with extraneous language that the crew may as well be talking Aramaic or speaking in tongues.

Whether prerecorded and shown over the entertainment system, or presented "live" the old-fashioned way, the demo has become a form of performance art, a campy adaptation of legal fine print brimming with ornamental gibberish. "At this time we do ask that you please return your seat backs to their full and upright positions." Why not, "Please raise your seat backs"? Or, my favorite: "Federal law prohibits tampering with, disabling, or destroying any lavatory smoke detector." Excuse me, but are those not the same bloody things? Doesn't "tampering with" pretty much cover it?

With a pair of shears and some common sense, the average briefing could be trimmed to half its length, resulting in a lucid oration that people might actually listen to. All that's really needed is a short tutorial on the basics of exits, seat belts, flotation equipment and oxygen masks. That shouldn't take more than a minute or two.

Once upon a time, when riding along as a passenger, I would shoot dirty looks at those who ignored the demo, and even made a point of paying undue attention just to help the cabin staff feel useful. After a while, realizing that neither the FAA nor the airlines have much interest in cleaning up this ornamental gibberish, I stopped caring. (Note: This does not excuse those passengers who insist on carrying on conversations over the announcement, effectively doubling the volume. Whether we need to hear a flight attendant explain the operation of a seat belt is open to some debate; we definitely don't need to hear the guy in Row 25 talking about his favorite seafood restaurant.)

Meanwhile, reach into your seat pocket and you'll discover a pictorial version of this same fatty babble: the always popular fold-out safety card. Similar to the demo, these are a pedantic nod to the FARs. The talent levels of the artists speak for themselves; the drawings appear to be a debased incarnation of Egyptian hieroglyphs.

When I was a kid I used to collect these briefing cards. My friends and I called them "escape cards." I had examples from TWA L-1011s, Braniff 727s, Allegheny DC-9s and so on. Poke around the Web and you'll see that I wasn't the only one.

Still worse are the cards spelling out the emergency exit row seating requirements. The rules covering who can or can't sit adjacent to the doors and red-handled hatches were a controversy for some time, and one result was a new standard in FAR superfluity -- an excruciating litany set to cardboard and packed with enough regulatory technobabble to set anyone's head spinning. Exit row passengers are asked to review this information before takeoff, which is a bit like asking them to learn Japanese in 12 minutes.

Look, blame the FAA for this silliness. It's typical of the agency's self-defeating obsession with minutiae and its forest-for-the-trees micromanagement of safety.

Crew members, though, can always make a bad situation worse, and some of you sent e-mails griping that pilot P.A.s are often as superfluous as those from cabin crew. This had me feeling self-conscious and a bit microphone-shy on my last work trip. I won't argue that my own announcements are short, but I avoid the folksy "Like to thank y'all fer flyin' with us today" kind of thing, and I stay away from jargon. If ever you catch me uttering the phrase "at this time," then clearly I've gone over to the dark side.

Here, how does this sound:

Good morning, ladies and gentleman, from the cockpit. We'd like to extend our welcome aboard Flight 96, nonstop service to São Paulo, Brazil. This is First Officer Patrick Smith speaking; I'm joined today by First Officer Neil Armstrong and Capt. Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin.

Our flying time to São Paulo will be nine hours and 20 minutes. Our route of flight, for those of you interested, will take us slightly west of Bermuda, then down across the Caribbean, passing just east of the island of Trinidad. We'll make landfall again near Georgetown, Guyana, and those of you on the right side should catch a nice view of Venezuela's Orinoco River Delta. Eventually we'll cross the Amazon River overhead the city of Santarém; then southbound passing over Brasilia before beginning our descent into São Paulo. Weather on arrival should be hazy skies and a temperature of around 90 degrees Fahrenheit -- about 32 Celsius.

We're waiting for some final luggage and freight to be loaded, and expect to be pushing back on time. We should be looking at a slightly early arrival, depending on the length of the takeoff queue. We'll give you a more accurate ETA once in the air. Again, nine hours and 20 minutes en route, and we hope you enjoy the flight. Thank you.

That's a template -- names, flight time, routing, arrival weather, departure status -- that I stick to very closely. Like I said, it's not short, but I try to keep it practical.

It varies from carrier to carrier, but guidelines do exist outlining the acceptable tone and content of crew-member announcements. Sayeth your General Operations Manual, Chapter 5, Verse 12: Do not discuss politics or religion. Off-color jokes, innuendo or slurs of any kind are forbidden. Thou shalt maintain only nonconfrontational rapport, lest the Chief Pilot summon and smite thee. (I strongly advocate that the recitation of college football scores be added to the list of prohibitions, but that's just me.) Rules might also restrict -- and not without good intentions -- the use of potentially frightening language or alarming buzzwords. One airline I worked for had a policy banning any announcement that began with the words, "Your attention, please."

"Your attention, please. Southeastern Central Nebraska Tech has just kicked a last-minute field goal to pull ahead of North Southwestern Methodist State, 31-28."

Another no-no is launching into complicated, jargon-rich explanations. "Yeah, uh, ladies and gentlemen, looks like 31L at Kennedy just fell to less than an eighth. It's under 600 right now on all three RVR. They're calling it Cat-III, and we're only Cat-II up here, so, um, we're gonna do a few turns over the VOR, then spin around and shoot the ILS to 22L. They've got a 300 and a half over there."

Um.

To me, the important thing is to avoid overburdening people with information they can't use. Take the weather. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my hunch that nobody cares that the wind is blowing from the southwest at 11 knots, or what the dew point is. They want to know if it's sunny, cloudy, rainy or snowy, and what the temperature is.

The only thing worse, maybe, than a pilot trying too hard to be informative is a pilot trying to be cute.

For that, let's flash back to the early 1990s and my very first airline job.

Our 19-seater had no flight attendant, and it was the responsibility of the first officer to give the safety demo, providing the opportunity to hone his or her public speaking skills. With most regional copilots qualifying for food stamps, this also was a natural segue into researching a second career. Namely, comedy. Southwest's stand-up routines have nothing on the wisecracking and ad-libbing heard at Northeast Express Regional Airlines, circa 1992, believe me. Of course, I know of no airline pilot ever taking the stage at a comedy club, which is a testament to just how awful most of these routines were. "But seriously, folks, your seat cushion becomes a flotation device! Is this thing on?"

Other planes had built-in cassette players, through which all regulatory announcements were taken care of by a sober-sounding fellow with a voice like James Earl Jones. Side A was the safety demo, which would run and then automatically stop. When the time came, you'd flip to Side B for the pre-landing spiel. With the tape decks on hand, I’d sometimes carry albums to work. Out on the apron between flights, I’d have lunch (usually something from Spinelli's, over in East Boston, which would splatter my shirt with enough tomato sauce to make it look like I'd murdered my passengers) and listen to music. One thing led to another, of course, and every now and then riders would be treated to the greatest hits from Patrick Smith's collection of 1980s alt-rock.

The idea was to play a couple of songs while people got comfortable, then switch it off once the engines were started. Occasionally I'd forget, and the music kept going. Neither I nor the first officer could hear a note of it, strapped with headsets, but I'm sure some people dug it. What could be more consoling to passengers, already agitated and uncomfortable, than belligerent rock music mixed with the din of thousand-horsepower engines?

En route to Burlington, Vt., one evening, the noise was enough to prompt a weary-looking businessman to stick his head into the cockpit and ask, "Could you please turn that racket off?" Oh hell, I thought, the tape! I reached for the player, then paused with my finger on the switch and asked him, "You mean the music, or the engines?"

Before I go, a clarification:

Two weeks ago, in my critique of Der Spiegel's analysis of last year's Air France disaster, I wrote the following:

"There are upward of 600 A330s in service around the world, plus another 350 of its almost-identical twin, the A340. Together they have flown tens of millions of air miles, and to date only one has crashed. That's a better per-unit hull loss rate than for any Boeing model."

Actually the A3340/A340 model has suffered three hull losses in commercial operations -- two flown by Air France and one by Iberia -- versus only one for the Boeing 777. I was trying to make a comparison between fatal accidents. The first two Airbus mishaps were runway overrun incidents -- including one covered at length by yours truly, here and here -- in which nobody was killed. Air France 447 was the first and only deadly accident involving an A330 or A340.

In either case, however, the math is wrong, since there has never been a fatal 777 crash.

What I was trying to say and what I wrote were quite different, and I concede it was sloppy reporting -- not to mention embarrassingly ironic since it occurred in the context of my snarkily criticizing a Der Spiegel reporter for his own misleading comments.

Let me try again:

"There are upward of 600 A330s in service around the world, plus another 350 of its almost-identical twin, the A340. Together they have flown tens of millions of air miles, and to date only one has been involved in a fatal incident. That's a better per-unit hull loss rate than for any Boeing model save the 777."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Contact Patrick Smith through his Web site and look for answers in a future column.

What should happen to the controllers who allowed this to happen? That's not for me to say, but I do have one question for them: What were you thinking? Archived air-to-ground communications are easily accessible on the Web, and the media adores any sort of aviation controversy, whether or not lives are ever in actual danger. Yes, this is a much bigger story than it ought to be, but I'm not surprised that we're dealing with it. 

Now, as for more weighty matters ...

Here at my hometown airport, Boston Logan, the first of Transportation Security Administration's new full-body scanners was wheeled into place earlier this week. More will follow. In Europe, several of the machines are up and running.

This is the latest and one of the more disheartening developments in our long war on the abstract noun called "terrorism." What's next, I have to ask, in this unwinnable arms race/shell game? Richard Reid hides a makeshift bomb in his sneakers, and from now until the end of time we all have to take our shoes off; radicals in London come up with a supposed liquid explosives scheme, and we're forever forced to sequester our toiletries into tiny containers; a guy puts a bomb in his underwear, and sure enough we're required to parade naked before getting on a plane. Where will it end? Or is this the end?

If, a decade ago, we were told that people would soon have to appear naked in order to board an airplane, the claim would have been met by peals of laughter and/or howls of outrage. But here it has come to pass, and what's our reaction? One or two muffled complaints and quiet acquiescence.

"Well, if it means we're safer ..."

That's what people say. Except -- never mind for a minute the perils of swapping away rights for false security -- they don't even mean it, in the first place. Safety? Is that what this is about? Obviously not. After all, you're far more likely to be killed in a highway crash than be blown up on an airliner, so why aren't we out there spending billions and stripping away our liberties in the name of highway safety? We still hear righteous cries of fascism any time the cops set up DWI roadblocks -- heaven forbid "the man" make me blow into a tube -- but sure, I'll doff my boxers if it protects me from "terror."

And somewhere, beneath all of this, rests the uncomfortable, seldom acknowledged reality that, no matter how hard we try, we're never going to make our airports and airplanes completely safe by means of  banning, confiscating and X-raying. There will always be a way to skirt the system. And as I've said before, the real job of keeping terrorists and criminals away from planes belongs to law enforcement and intelligence -- to the FBI, CIA, Interpol -- not to TSA screeners on the concourse.

Is anybody listening? I didn't think so.

Anyway, onto something more fun ...

I'm excited, I think, to announce that Ask the Pilot now has its own Facebook page. I say "I think" because the idea wasn't mine and the page remains, shall we say, unauthorized. It's the work of Steve Hartman, one of my more devout apostles. Steve says the page is great, but truth be told I've never been to Facebook in my life, and I'm afraid to look. Let me know if he needs to be reined in. 

Though, actually, neither security nor Facebook were on my to-do list for this week. What I really wanted to talk about was a recent article in Der Speigel. Last week, the online unit of the highly respected German magazine ran a splashy (terrible pun, I know), 2,800-word analysis of last year's yet-unsolved Air France disaster. Many of my readers have been curious to know if Spiegel's reporter, Gerald Traufetter, had the facts right.

On May 31, 2009, Flight 447, an Airbus A330 headed to Paris from Rio de Janeiro, crashed into the ocean off northeast Brazil after an apparent encounter with powerful storms. The accident was covered in this column in four separate installments, here, here, here and here.

To what extent weather and/or mechanical failure may have played a role remains a mystery, and may never be fully understood. Traufetter gives it a try, and does a reasonable job when it comes to the overall scenario; there's nothing blatantly inaccurate or misleading in the piece. However, it definitely spits and sputters when it comes to the small stuff. I couldn't help wincing on several occasions. Let me pick my way through and show you a few examples which are instructive not only in the context of this particular story, but are typical of the oversimplifications and inaccuracies that infect almost all mass-media aviation reportage. I hope my clarifications will provide some how-it's-done insights that you'll find interesting:

I began to get nervous with the very first line…

"The crash of Air France flight 447 from Rio to Paris last year is one of the most mysterious accidents in the history of aviation. After months of investigation, a clear picture has emerged of what went wrong."

The second sentence seems to directly contradict the first, which itself isn't really true. One of the most mysterious accidents in the history of aviation? The recent history of aviation perhaps, but going back over the decades one finds any number of unsolved crashes, some of them a lot more mysterious than this one. Crashes might be few and far between, but they do occur and we don't always determine a cause. Planes have disappeared without a trace. With this one we at least have physical evidence and can bracket what went wrong.

"Many frequent flyers have since opted for daytime flights across the Atlantic because pilots can recognize storm fronts more easily during the day."

Many frequent flyers? Have they? I'm suspicious, and in any case there are very few daytime, east-to-west transatlantic crossings. Most flights go at night -- to allow for connections and for optimum aircraft utilization.

"A half moon lit up the Atlantic Ocean on the night of May 31, offering reasonably favorable conditions for a flight through the dangerous intertropical convergence zone."

Major foul on this one. I'm hoping it was a gaffe in the translation from German to English. "Dangerous," he says. The intertropical convergence zone is an area of latitude on either side of the equator in which tall and fierce thunderstorms sometimes erupt. On moonless nights these storms -- and smaller turbulent buildups as well -- can be difficult to pick out, visually. But that's what on-board radar, datalink weather updates, and real-time pilot reports are for. And although storms in the ITCZ can be powerful, they tend to be isolated and comparatively easy to circumnavigate. Commercial aircraft do not fly in "dangerous" areas; meanwhile, thousands of flights navigate through the ITCZ every day. Unpredictable? Sure. Challenging? It can be. But dangerous? Absolutely not. A terrible choice of words.

"Captain Marc Dubois ... has more than 70 tons of kerosene pumped into the fuel tanks."

Here the author is discussing preflight preparations on the ground in Rio. This is getting nitpicky, but people might find it interesting: The captain does not, as a rule, determine or supervise fuel loading. The required amount of fuel is set in advance by an airline's dispatchers and flight planners, in strict accordance with a long list of regulations. A captain has the final say and can always request extra, but initial fuel planning is not part of his job.

The applicable regulations are intricate and can vary country to country (an aircraft is beholden to its nation of registry, plus any local requirements if they're more stringent). The U.S. rule is a good indicator of how conservatively things work: For flights going overseas, there must always be at least enough fuel to carry a plane to its intended destination, then to its designated alternate airport(s), plus another 30 minutes buffer,  plus yet another buffer representing 10 percent of total flight time. Sometimes two or more alternates have to be filed in a flight plan (another batch of rules), upping the total accordingly. The preflight paperwork includes a detailed breakdown of anticipated burn. En route, the remaining total is cross-checked against the predicted total as waypoints are passed.

"It's only by means of a trick that the captain can even reach Paris without going under the legally required minimum reserves of kerosene that must still be in the plane's tanks upon arrival in the French capital. A loophole allows him to enter Bordeaux -- which lies several hundred kilometers closer than Paris -- as the fictitious destination for his fuel calculations."

Ooh, a loophole, and a "fictitious destination." Must be scandalous. Except that it's not. Inflight redispatching is common and does not change the fact that an aircraft must, at its redispatch point, still have enough remaining fuel to reach its destination and any required alternates, plus a buffer. The author is setting up a scenario that suggests the crew may have been shy about diverting around storms due to worries about fuel or a possible diversion.

"'Major deviation would therefore no longer have been possible anymore,' says Gerhard Hüttig, an Airbus pilot and professor at the Berlin Technical University's Aerospace Institute. If worse came to worst, the pilot would have to stop and refuel in Bordeaux, or maybe even in Lisbon. 'But pilots are very reluctant to do something like that,' Hüttig adds. After all, it makes the flight more expensive, causes delays and is frowned upon by airline bosses."

The insinuation here is complete bull. Obviously an unplanned fuel stop is not an ideal situation, and sure, pilots are reluctant to embark on a major deviation to avoid en route storms. But, believe me, they'll do it if it's the proper thing to do. The idea that pilots would press on through a dangerous storm to save time or money, or in fear of reprimand, is highly offensive. "Airline bosses" aren't fond of diversions, you're right. Neither are they fond of accidents that kill hundreds of people, and no respectable carrier would ever call any crew onto the carpet who'd made an unplanned fuel stop because they opted to give powerful thunderstorms a wide berth.

Although we'll never know for sure what the pilots were looking at on their radar, the weather encountered by Flight 447 may not have been all that severe. Failure of the plane's airspeed probes and subsequent loss of its control systems was probably the critical factor, and could have occurred in weather that, by itself, wasn't dangerous.

And who is Gerhard Hüttig, and was he taken out of context? His being an "Airbus pilot" does not mean that he flies for an airline, and as I've pointed out in past columns, aviation academics (professors, researchers, etc.,) are often terrible sources, possessing limited knowledge of the day-to-day realities of commercial flying.

"The Sensors Fail. It's hard to imagine a more precarious situation, even for pilots with nerves of steel: Flying through a violent thunderstorm that shakes the entire plane as the master warning lamp starts blinking on the instrument panel in front of you. An earsplitting alarm rings out, and a whole series of error messages suddenly flash up on the flight motor."

I'll give you that, though presumably he means "monitor" not "motor," which I think is a reference to one of the cockpit display screens.

"Did the pilots on flight AF 447 know about the airspeed indicator failures experienced by colleagues on nine other aircraft belonging to their own airline? Air France had indeed distributed a note about this to all its pilots, albeit as part of several hundred pages of information that pilots find in their inbox every week."

I can't speak for Air France, and "several hundred pages" strikes me as a real stretch, but he makes a fair point. Pilots are routinely inundated with reams of technical arcana: manual changes and updates, memos, bulletins, alerts. This material is dull and often impenetrably dense. Determining what's important can be difficult.

"… it's unclear who was controlling the Air France plane in its final minutes. Was it the experienced flight captain, Dubois, or one of his two first officers? Typically, a captain retreats to his cabin to rest a while after takeoff."

Not exactly. Flights longer than eight hours' duration typically carry at least one extra pilot -- normally an extra first officer -- which allows for a series of rotating breaks. Essentially each pilot spends a third or so of the flight off-duty, as it were, relaxing or sleeping. As for who gets the first break, beginning shortly after takeoff, well that depends. And what's this about "his cabin"? The size and luxuriousness of on-board rest facilities varies with airline and aircraft type -- it might be just a cordoned-off seat in business class, or it might be a spacious room with comfortable bunks and a changing area -- but always they are shared. This is a jetliner, not a cruise ship. The captain does not have a cabin of his own.

Also there's the implication that the first officer is, by definition, less experienced than the captain. Without getting into the nuances of airline seniority bidding, this is usually the case but not always. Either way, all three crew members are fully qualified to operate the aircraft in all regimes of flight, including emergencies.

"In contrast to many other airlines, it is standard practice at Air France for the less experienced of the two copilots to take the captain's seat when the latter is not there. The experienced copilot remains in his seat on the right-hand side of the cockpit. Under normal circumstances, that is not a problem, but in emergencies it can increase the likelihood of a crash."

Another major foul, and using terms like "less experienced" gives a totally wrong impression. It's tempting to prefer that the most "experienced" pilot be in the captain's seat as an emergency is unfolding. I would prefer the best pilot to be there. Experience and skill are not necessarily one in the same. As it happened, both first officers were present, both were fully qualified to operate the aircraft, and on which side of the cockpit they were sitting really didn't matter. A plane can be flown, and all of its systems operated, from either seat.

"Not long after the airspeed indicator failed, the plane went out of control and stalled … According to this scenario, the pilots would have been forced to watch helplessly as their plane lost its lift. That theory is supported by the fact that the airplane remained intact to the very end."

You lost me here. I don't understand this conclusion at all. If the plane goes out of control and stalls, you would expect it to not remain intact to the very end. But it was intact, apparently, rapidly descending and striking the water belly-first, in a right-side-up, mostly flat attitude.

Did the airspeed sensors fail? How did they fail? How did the plane's complex computerized flight control system react? And how, in turn, did the pilots react? Did their errors compound a serious but survivable emergency, or were they doomed from the beginning? It's likely we'll never know for sure.

Another pressing questions is whether Airbus was already aware of potentially faulty speed sensors on some of its aircraft, and whether it should have done more to alert airlines and crews. Prior to the Air France disaster, other A330s suffered failures similar to the one suspected to have been a factor in the crash of Flight 447.

The more comforting news is that operators and pilots are now well aware of this potential problem, and are better prepared to respond should it happen. Airbus has designed an improved warning system for sensor malfunctions. Granted, some open questions remain, but in the meantime, should passengers be wary of these planes? The practical answer is no. There are upward of 600 A330s in service around the world, plus another 350 of its almost-identical twin, the A340. Together they have flown tens of millions of air miles, with only one fatal accident. That's not to brush controversies or responsibilities under the rug; it's to remind you of the extraordinary rarity at which accidents like this occur. 

Next time: The babble of the takeoff safety briefing

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Contact Patrick Smith through his Web site and look for answers in a future column.

Smith submits that he was not presenting an inconvenience or hazard in accordance with Southwest's own rules, in which case Southwest may have erred.

Naturally this whole topic will slide into a cuss-filled discussion about why the seats have to be so damn small in the first place. To which I respond: in order to keep airfares as cheap as the public demands they be. Per-seat margins for airlines are razor thin, and the only way to keep economy tickets affordable for everyone is to configure aircraft the way they are configured.

Contrary to what people think, aircraft seating layouts have not really changed over the last 30-plus years. Airlines are not, in fact, cramming in more seats, as conventional wisdom holds. There is no less legroom or arm space than there ever has been, really. A 737, just to pick one (Southwest has an all-737 fleet), has always had six seats across in economy class, with roughly the same amount of average legroom as you'll find today. If anything there is slightly more room in economy than there used to be. Newer models like the A320 series, for instance, are slightly wider than older narrow-body standards such as the once-common 727, 707, etc. And certainly a wide-bodied A330 or 777 is a better ride than, say, an old DC-10.

What's changed, of course, is our average waist size.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Now let me hit a few things from the letters forum a couple of weeks ago. Readers segued nicely from my "You know what bugs me?" rant — about flight attendants who make the welcome speech while the plane is still screaming down the runway — to recording their own long litany of complaints.

First on the list is a comment from "websmith."

"What's really annoying," submits websmith, "is when the airlines tell you that there's no first class seats available ... and the first thing that you see upon boarding is a flight attendant or pilot sitting in first class for free. Apparently these entitled astronauts don't realize who is responsible for them having jobs."

Not quite. It is true that employees riding standby will sometimes be upgraded to a vacant seat in first or business class. However, it is not true that said seat will be denied to a paying passenger in order to make this happen. I cannot tell you why the opportunity to upgrade wasn't available on a given flight; the rules for mileage redemption and whatnot can be Byzantine and hard to follow, and they don't always seem to be fair. You can direct your complaint to the airline's pricing, marketing or frequent flier departments. All I can tell you for sure is that no premium seat is ever blocked for the benefit of a freeloading employee. If one of us is sitting there, that seat was not open for upgrade and would otherwise be going out empty.

One exception to this would be an occasion when an on-duty crew member is being repositioned — deadheaded, as we say. Work rules may stipulate that a repositioning pilot is entitled to a seat in business or first. Though even this is very rare on domestic routes — it's mostly an international thing.

Why do I have a feeling you don't believe me?

Next up is a letter from reader Douglas Moran.

"You know what really bugs me?" he asks. What really bugs Moran is "How friggin' loud it is in airports." He goes on to describe the typical gate-side cacophony of cellphone conversations and incessant public address announcements.

Ah, now we're on to something. There are few of us who wouldn't sympathize. And apparently Moran has not been a regular reader of my column, or he would know that I've long been an airport noise crusader (er, complainer).

If anything, the problem is getting worse, and it's a peculiarly American phenomenon. Latin American airports are sometimes clamorous, but those in Europe and Asia are often blissfully quiet. One of the things that struck me about Korea's fabulous airport, Incheon International, was its cathedral-like calm. In the States it's another story. Here's a cut from the new edition of my book:

If American airports need to borrow one idea from their counterparts in Europe and Asia, it's that passengers need not be bombarded by a continuous loop of useless and redundant public address announcements. In many U.S. terminals you'll have three or more announcements blaring simultaneously, rendering all of them unintelligible in a hurricane of noise. Furthermore, we must seek and destroy every last one of those infernal gate-side monitors blaring CNN Airport Network. These yammering hellboxes are everywhere, and they cannot be turned off. There is no button, no power cord, no escape. Not even airport workers know how to shut them up.

The problem isn't about crowds. For the most part it isn't the passengers themselves who create all the racket, but rather the profligate means through which we attempt to control, cajole and entertain them.

I was at JFK not long ago, trying to find a quiet spot to read between flights. It was late in the evening and the terminal was more or less deserted. Yet the decibel level was at full-on headache thanks to the endless security warnings and CNN chatterboxes. The departure lounges were empty, but the announcements were still playing and all of the TVs were going. Not only was this an assault on my senses, but an offensive waste of energy to boot.

(On that second point, I noticed the moving walkways and escalators were also running nonstop, even without riders. What could be more wasteful than powering thousands of pounds of moving sidewalk when there's not a pedestrian in sight? And what is it that prevents Americans from installing those motion-sensitive triggers that the rest of the world always seems to have?)

Curious, I tracked down a couple of employees, including a supervisor, and asked if they could turn a few of the TVs off or, at the very least, lower their volume. Neither of the workers had any idea how the sets were controlled. "You'd have to ask the Port Authority," I was advised with a shrug.

And good luck taking matters into your own hands. There is a neat little device on the market called TV-B-Gone — a universal, remote-control off button that fits on your key chain. A surreptitious tip of the hand, and bing, off goes any TV within about 40 feet. A major coup, you think?

Alas, TV-B-Gone is effective only against a small percentage of sets, not including most of CNN's. The makers of the blasted electronic cyclops have caught on, and screens are now insulated against tampering. Merciless as it sounds, they've installed blockers that effectively force you to watch. Not even the volume is adjustable, and not even those companies on whose turf the broadcaster is operating — the airlines — or the customers they are aggravating, can do anything about it. Talk about capturing your audience.

And while I don't want to take this too far, isn't there something just a tad creepy and Orwellian about televisions that cannot be turned off?

I have a feeling that somewhere out there is a survey in which a majority of travelers insist that they enjoy and appreciate the chance to watch TV at the gate. That may well be true, and I am not suggesting they be denied this privilege outright. But a license to entertain and a license to harass are different things. If the TVs have a right to be there, we should also have the right to get the heck away from them, should the desire arise. That's what's missing.

But television is only one facet of the noise plague, and not the worst offender. That dubious honor goes to the insane cycle of public address announcements that bellow endlessly from the terminal sound system. As I type this article, I'm sitting at Gate B18 at the U.S. Airways facility at Logan Airport in Boston. I am pleased to report there are no TVs. There is, on the other hand, an eternal barrage of nonsense crackling from unseen speakers. I've been counting, and there's a maximum of about 10 seconds between announcements.

And virtually none of those announcements, by the way, serves any useful purpose. Why, for instance, are we being told about TSA's liquids and gels restrictions after we've passed through security? Ditto for the dissertation on curbside parking regulations. We can also do without the numerous airport promotional spots. Did you know that Boston's Logan airport offers more daily flights than any other airport in New England? No kidding, I thought it was Bangor, Maine. Not to mention I am already at Logan Airport and thus I fail to see the value of a promotion whose purpose is to get me here.

And don't get me started on "threat-level orange" or my good-citizen duty to turn in fellow passengers for "suspicious behavior."

Between these extremely important proclamations we're treated to (some) music and (much) advertising, courtesy of "Airwaves, the Sound of Boston Logan." This is the airport's in-house, prerecorded "radio" station. Airwaves delivers "high-quality programming 24 hours a day, seven days a week." I know this because that, too, is being broadcast at regular intervals, together with a pitch inviting customers to purchase ad time, through which they can "reach [which is to say annoy] tens of thousands of air travelers."

Periodically drowning out this brain-scrambling sound storm are the slightly more valuable gate-side pages and boarding calls. Of course, no attempt is made to first pause whatever is already playing. The second wave of blather is simply added to the first one — except it's louder. At some airports this sonic layering is unbearable. I have heard up to four P.A. calls playing simultaneously.

At Logan, even the moving walkways have their own separate sound system, with directives to attend to children and the warning, "The moving walkway is nearing its end." Do we really need this coddling claptrap? As if people can't figure out when they need to start moving their feet again? (Of course, you're supposed to walk on a walkway, not stand and block the way, but that's a complaint for a different time.)

Then you've got the shrieking kids, the beeping carts, the cellphone chatter and so on. It's a multi-front attack that, short of applying headphones or earplugs, is virtually inescapable, seeping into every nook and corner of the terminal, at all hours of the day or night.

If ever all of this struck me in a moment of intolerable clarity (and hilarity), it was the night last Christmas in JetBlue's new shopping mall — er, terminal — at JFK, where, rising above the din, just barely audible, were the strains of Bing Crosby singing "Silent Night."

Flying is stressful enough, and nothing pushes already jangled nerves over the edge more quickly than excess noise. Do we really need this? What are they thinking?

Ironically, the actual loudest things at an airport — the airplanes themselves — are almost never heard, buffered behind walls of glass and concrete. And it's not until you step aboard your plane that you finally find some peace. The transition from terminal to cabin is almost palpable. So long as there isn't a baby nearby, the cabin is a welcome sanctuary of sudden quiet. (Though not everywhere. Some airlines have, you guessed it, taken to playing music and promotional spots during the boarding and disembarking process.) And for exactly this reason we all should be very concerned about proposals that would allow the use of cellphones while aloft.

Once on board, for the quietest ride en route, try to sit as far forward as possible. The loudest seats are usually in the back, near or behind the engines. Airplane acoustics are strange, and the difference between forward and aft can be quite substantial. If you're seated in a back row, engine noise comes at you in a deep, loud roar. Up front, on the very same plane, it can be almost completely silent.

And finally, one more player in the what-bugs-me game ...

"What makes an airport terminal like a casino?" a poster called "mgriscom" wants to know. "With very few hidden and randomly placed exceptions, there are no clocks."

I usually wear a watch, and this is something I've never really thought about, but mgriscom is right, you don't see clocks in airports, which doesn't make a lot of sense when you consider that punctuality is part and parcel of flying.

However, here's a trick: All you need to do is check out one of those arrival and departure monitors. They tend to be conveniently placed, and they almost always display the exact local time, usually along the bottom or top of the screen — provided some idiot hasn't turned them off with his TV-B-Gone.

Not only will they tell you the time, but best of all they are silent!

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Contact Patrick Smith through his Web site and look for answers in a future column.

I don't know why this irks me as much as it does. There's something undignified about it. And with all the racket from the engines, nobody aft of the wings can even hear. Can't they wait until the plane is on a taxiway? It's not as if it doesn't take another 20 minutes to reach the gate.

A similar thing goes on in the cockpit, courtesy of impatient air traffic controllers who apparently don't understand that pilots in the throes of landing a plane are busy. You're still at a hundred knots or more, with the reversers up, making your callouts, and here's ATC rattling off instructions: "Flight 78, roll to the end, turn right on taxiway T to taxiway GG and hold short of runway 16R, monitor tower on 123.7..."

Hah? What? Who? And if you don't answer back within three seconds, they get upset. Everything else about flying seems to move in ultra-slow motion, from the boarding process to the security lines. Why the rush with the announcements and instructions?

Just asking.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

But on a more important note...

Last Tuesday the National Transportation Safety Board revealed its findings on the crash of Colgan Air (Continental Connection) Flight 3407, the Dash-8 turboprop that went down near Buffalo on Feb. 12, 2009. For the most part, the board's conclusions merely reiterate what we already knew:

Essentially, during final approach, crew inattentiveness allowed the aircraft to slow to a point where a stall-warning system activated. The proper reaction to the warning would have been to add power and keep the plane's nose either neutral or slightly low. Capt. Marvin Renslow got the first part right, but he inexplicably pulled back on the control column, raising the nose and throwing the plane into an aerodynamic stall. It then crashed to the ground, killing everybody on board.

For in-depth analysis of the accident, including technical discussions of stalls and warning systems, see my prior columns here and here.

The idea of pulling back on a control column to offset an impending stall violates even the daftest pilot's most rudimentary intuition, never mind his training. It's not a whole lot different from standing on the accelerator when you mean to stand on the brake. Why Renslow did this is anybody's guess. Some have speculated that he may have believed the aircraft was suffering a horizontal stabilizer stall rather than a stalling of the wings, in which case his actions made more sense. But he had no real reason to think this, as the stall-warning system (a combination of an alarm and a so-called stick pusher) is tied to the wings, not to the stabilizer. Perhaps, or even probably, it was nothing more than panic. As an NTSB psychologist put it, Renslow's response was "consistent with startle and confusion."

That startle and confusion would have been exacerbated by the fact that, as Renslow saw it, the plane should not have been stalling. Prior to takeoff, in anticipation of possible icing conditions, Renslow had armed a system that would trigger the stall warning at a higher-than-normal speed. However, he and his first officer, Rebecca Shaw, mistakenly left their airspeed reference indices at the normal values. Thus the warning system was reacting to ice that wasn't present, and based on what their airspeed instruments were telling them, a stall warning made no sense. This confusion does not justify the deadly mistake of pulling back instead of pushing forward, but it certainly was fuel to the fire. As were a host of contributing factors, such as Renslow's (very) spotty training record, chatter in the cockpit, Shaw's sinus trouble and possible crew fatigue.

In many ways the crash represented a perfect storm of everything that is wrong and dysfunctional about regional airlines, from the absurdly low pay (Shaw earned a salary of about $17,000) to the long hours and hostile working conditions. I'll remind you, as I have in the past, that regional flying is by no means unsafe; the fact that accidents remain so few and far between is a testament to the thousands of highly skilled and well-trained regional pilots out there performing admirably in tough conditions. But to keep things safe -- indeed, to make them safer -- we need to be proactive. Carriers and regulators need to work together with an eye toward better hiring and training standards, better working conditions, and improved flight and duty time rules.

On that last issue, the NTSB was unable to reach a consensus on whether pilot fatigue had played a role, recommending only that airlines address the practice of "commuting" -- that is, pilots flying to work assignments from distant cities, sometimes several time zones away. Both Renslow and Shaw had commuted to Newark prior to their final workday -- Shaw coming all the way from Seattle — and spent the night dozing in the airline's airport crew room.

"This commuting issue is one that everyone wants to turn their head away from," said NTSB chair Deborah Hersman. "The pilots don't want to talk about it; the airlines don't want to talk about it."

I was a little stunned by this. Granted, commuting is a factor if we're going to talk about fatigue at regional airlines. But what about the pilots' work schedules themselves? It worries me that commuting, rather than the Federal Aviation Administration's inadequate duty time and rest rules, is going to get the bulk of public attention.

More than 50 percent of crew members commute, pilots and flight attendants alike. Commuting can be complicated and, I admit, occasionally stressful. Airline employees almost always ride standby, and company rules require us to allow for backup flights in case of delays or cancellations. This can mean having to leave home several hours before sign-in, in some cases a full day prior. But on the whole pilots are pretty good at getting adequate rest prior to work. Once that work actually starts, however, a schedule can be highly demanding. Regional pilots routinely work 12-, 13-, even 14-hour days, flying multiple legs in and out of busy airports, sandwiched between minimum-rest layovers. Actual flight time is held to a maximum of eight hours, but the time spent on duty — waiting out delays, transferring between flights, etc. — is not as strictly regulated. (Neither is it always compensated for; per-hour salaries are similarly based on airtime, not ground time.)

And although the opportunity to commute is a privilege that allows crews to live where they please, it can also be a necessity. Aircraft and base assignments change frequently, and having to uproot and move each time a new bid comes out — especially if you're making $30,000 or less and trying to support a family — would be enormously disruptive and expensive. Moreover, can you really expect a junior pilot or flight attendant to live in Boston, New York City or any other expensive metropolitan area on a regional airline salary?

Word on the street is that regulators might attempt to rein in commuters, restricting the number of hours a crew member can spend in transit prior to signing in for duty. This, I think, is a bad idea, and I would recommend focusing first on revising the FAA's inadequate rest and duty provisions. Regulating commutes would be extremely difficult, and at some point you're attempting to regulate what somebody can or can't do in what is essentially his or her spare time. Are you suggesting a pilot shouldn't commute the morning of a trip? Well, why is catching a flight necessarily more fatiguing than anything else he might be doing that morning? Etc.

For those of us assigned to international routes, commuting is comparatively easy, and the work assignments generally less stressful. Duty periods tend to be longer — many of them overnight flights to Europe or beyond — but we have fewer of them. I typically commute three, sometimes four times each month, while a regional pilot might have to do it five, six, seven times or more. And with augmented crews we get scheduled rest breaks en route, together with long layovers in nice hotels. Many long-distance commuters will bunch their assignments together into one or two continuous stretches totaling anywhere from 10 to 15 days. This means having to spend a night or two in a hotel or crash pad between trips, but requires only one or two flights to and from home each month.

My commute is about as easy as it gets. I've got gobs of departures to choose from, and it's a short flight with no time zone changes. I've met plenty of colleagues who commute coast to coast, and one or two who do it from Europe. I know of a flight attendant who makes the trip to his base in New York from Santiago, Chile, and have been told about a now-retired Eastern Airlines captain who commuted to Atlanta all the way from New Zealand.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Not all the news recently is bad or controversial. You probably missed it, but Monday, Feb. 8, was something of a historic day in commercial aviation. That afternoon, Boeing's 747-8, the newest variant of the company's iconic jumbo jet, completed its long-awaited inaugural flight.

The 747 is arguably the most important aircraft in aviation history. When it debuted in 1969, it was more than double the size of any existing aircraft, with economies of scale that made long-distance air travel affordable for millions. And it did so with an aesthetic dignity seldom seen anymore in commercial transport. Forty years on, this newest version is bigger, sleeker and packed with technological advances, yet it remains true to the 747's original profile. No, it's not the biggest commercial jet anymore, but it remains the most elegant.

For more, see my essay comparing the 747 and the Airbus A380.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

And lastly, apropos of last week's introduction to "Captain Steve," the Ask the Pilot knockoff ... To those of you who sent letters: Thanks for the moral support. Meanwhile the whole thing got me thinking. I'm somewhat surprised there aren't more of these gigs out there. That is, more experts from this or that unusual profession writing, answering questions, and otherwise sharing insights. Much the way there's a "Dummies" book for just about every pursuit, it strikes me there must be a market out there for some good insider info. If nothing else, there's a pleasure that comes from reading about certain lines of work — especially those we're glad not to be doing ourselves.

A little of this is already out there, obviously. Not all purveyors specialize in Q&A forums the way I do, but various trades have their commentators and storytellers of record. The most famous of them is probably Anthony Bourdain. Though if you ask me, his popularity is less about any compelling backstage glimpse than simply exploiting our obscene infatuation with food.

More talented is Atul Gawande, the surgeon, author and commentator, whose insights into the world of medicine often appear in the New Yorker. I usually find them riveting and can't put them down, even if I'm reading through a haze of extreme jealousy. Not only is Gawande wealthier, more famous and a better writer, but he's younger than me.

Where can we take this? "Ask the Exterminator." "Ask the Systems Analyst." "Ask the Bouncer."

Er, well, maybe the idea is more limited than I thought. Of course the important thing isn't so much the profession itself, but rather how it's presented. I have no predisposed interest in cuisine, for example, yet I thoroughly enjoy Bourdain's essays (and, to a lesser degree, his TV show). I use this same standard for measuring my own success. My most savored letters are those from devout readers who openly admit that they couldn't care less about flying. That's about as flattering as it gets.

I love the reader comments exclaiming what a great and novel idea this "ask a pilot" feature is. Now, why didn't I think of that?

What's funny, sort of, is that Dubner himself once contributed a complimentary blurb on behalf of my book and my work on Salon. "I wish I could fold up Patrick Smith and put him in my suitcase," he wrote. "He seems to know everything worth knowing about flying."

Now, to be clear, I'll take a seat in coach any day rather than share a Samsonite with Dubner's smelly socks, but still I'm flattered. Or, I was flattered, before this "Captain Steve" came along and stole Dubner's heart.

Listen, "Steve," this cannot stand. I'm afraid there's only room for one of us in this cybertown. I propose a duel.

Right away I get bonus points for using my full name, generic as it is, but let's put our answering skills to the test. We'll both reply to 10 commonly asked questions about commercial flying, and allow a panel of impartial readers to vote on whose answers they like better. The winner gets bragging rights and perpetual domain over the racket of providing online air travel expertise. No more knockoffs.

I see that you've already tackled the controversy over air quality in aircraft cabins, as have I. Here's your answer...

And here's mine ...

Allow me to submit the rest ahead of time. How about a heady dissertation on turbulence?

Engine failures?

Delays?

Global airline safety?

Customer service issues?

Or, should it come down to a tiebreaker, how about Steve and I square off in a battle of memoir and storytelling? Like this. Or this.

That's the thing. This will be easy for me. I have discussed and re-discussed pretty much all of the most frequently asked questions posed by frequent (or nervous) fliers, and my explanations tend to be a lot longer and more comprehensive than Steve's. I can simply recycle my best material. In fact why have the contest at all?

Do I sound even more insufferable than usual? I thought so. What I'm trying to say, of course, is that yes, I'm jealous. Can't help it. I was first at this, and I'm rather territorial about it — to a fault probably, as even kidding around I manage to sound like a pompous, petulant jerk.

We've been through this before, some of you might remember. A few years ago, USA Today came up with the not-at-all derivative "Ask the Captain" column, hosted by Meryl Getline, a former United Airlines pilot. Getline wasn't around for very long, unable to compete against my singular blend of trenchant insight, captivating eloquence, keen humor and shameless self-promotion.

Either that or she just got sick of it.

Not me, though. I never run out of fun things to talk about. Even on those occasions when I need to replay some old, previously covered topic (airport security, for one) there's always fresh interest. It's the nature of the business, I suppose. Plainly put, commercial flying is a secretive, sometimes frightening realm that nobody likes, nobody trusts, and yet everybody takes part in. It's fish in a barrel.

Let me give you some advice, "Steve." First, if there's a golden rule to this gig, it's this: Never, ever underestimate the traveling public's disdain for the airlines and its willingness to believe almost every false rumor, exaggerated story and conspiracy theory. A majority of what the public presumes about commercial flying is based on bad information. Conventional wisdom is, for the most part, wrong.

And here's a timesaving tip: You will receive many, many e-mails beginning with the words "Is it true that..." You should have a template e-mail standing by at all times, politely informing the reader that the answer is no.

Now, if you'll excuse me, back to my in box...

Is it true that jetliners have windshield wipers?

No.

I mean yes. This might strike you as quaint, but most airliners are indeed equipped with wipers.

They're used on the ground, and during takeoffs and landings if precipitation is heavy. They are effective at keeping the windscreen clear, but tend to be very noisy. Usually there is a speed restriction (around 200 knots, give or take), above which they should not be turned on. Some planes use a system that instead blows engine-bleed air across the glass.

Cockpit windows are also electrically heated to prevent ice and frost accretion. The individual panels use separate circuits and heating elements so that a failure will affect only one section. Heating also increases flexibility, providing extra protection against bird strikes. The glass is unbelievably strong — bank-teller thick and bolstered by high-strength frames. I once saw a video of maintenance workers attempting — and failing — to shatter a discarded cockpit windscreen with a sledgehammer.

If that all sounds expensive, it is. Swapping out a single cockpit pane can run tens of thousands of dollars.

It has always puzzled me why airliners deploy their landing gear so long before landing, yet tuck it away almost immediately after lifting off. I understand the idea of eliminating drag on takeoff, but dropping the wheels so soon must subject them to a lot of stress from the airstream.

Actually, putting the gear down early is a useful tool to help slow down or descend. However, planes normally drop their undercarriage at somewhere around 2,000 feet on final approach. Mainly it's just to be certain that everything is steady and stable at a reasonably early point. Lowering the gear has a significant aerodynamic impact — mainly in the adding of wind resistance (that is, drag) — thus requiring power and pitch adjustments to maintain speed, altitude or rate of descent. It's best to have that out of the way early on to help establish what pilots call a "stabilized approach." Deploying the gear close to the runway could cause a sudden shift in airspeed and attitude exactly when it's critical not to have a sudden shift in airspeed and attitude.

On takeoff, however, this works to a plane's advantage. Remember, the moments just after liftoff are the most critical moments of any flight. The plane is making the transition from ground to air, and margins are relatively thin. The more help it can get — such as eliminating the drag caused by dangling landing gear — the better. On approach, by contrast, flight is well established and the margins much fatter.

All planes have maximum speeds for deployment and retraction. Airstream stress is more of an issue for the doors than for the gear assembly itself. For this reason, some of the doors will open as the gear comes down, then close up again.

In last week's column you alluded to the fact that airplanes crossing the ocean are not under radar coverage from air traffic control. I found this surprising, and even a little scary. How are transoceanic flights kept safely apart?

The best example of how this works is the North Atlantic Track (NAT) system, used to coordinate the hundreds of aircraft that travel daily between the United States and Europe. Out over the ocean, flights are not under radar control, but they are on assigned routes — or tracks, as we call them — made up of connected points of latitude and longitude, with a "gateway" fix at either end where you transition to and from the normal radar environment.

The tracks are constructed differently each day, depending on weather and winds. Ordinarily there are six or seven of them, designated by letter, 60 miles apart. Vertically, aircraft are separated by a minimum of 1,000 feet. Here's a map showing what they look like. In the evening, traffic on the tracks is west-to-east only. During the morning and afternoon, another set is constructed, and traffic flows the other way.

Flights are cleared and sequenced along the tracks based on speed and time. At each latitude and longitude fix, you make a position report to whichever controlling agency's jurisdiction you're in (Gander, New York, Shanwick, and so on). These reports include the exact crossing time, altitude, fuel and ETA to the next point. The reports are made by voice using HF radio, or automatically via on-board datalink, depending which equipment the aircraft has.

Altitude or routing changes must be coordinated with the controlling facilities on either end. In an emergency, the crew follows a prescribed series of steps in order to safely clear the track system and divert. A similar system is used over the North Pacific.

In areas of the world without organized tracks, or when flying in the direction against the track flow, planes follow "random routes." Randoms are essentially the same thing — a string of latitude and longitude fixes along which crews make position reports — but the clearance and communications protocols aren't quite as rigid.

Media note: On Tuesday, Feb. 9, the PBS show "Frontline" will air a special episode focusing on regional airline safety, coinciding with the first anniversary of the Colgan Air/Continental Connection crash outside Buffalo, N.Y. Former CNN commentator and aviation enthusiast Miles O'Brien will be the host.

Please let me know how it goes. I'd love to watch, but, well, y'know, prior commitments. Tuesday is scrub-mildew-from-the-shower night. Really, I suppose that in some respects it's my duty to watch, and the show's publicity people were kind enough to offer me an advance copy. Meanwhile, I've been a "Frontline" devotee for 20 years, and if anybody is bound to do a good job, it's them. However, history has taught me to be very wary of such projects, no matter how nobly attempted, and I can't spend another night screaming at the television and writing letters.

Plus — and maybe this is the real reason — as somebody who was a regional pilot for several years, and as somebody who has written fairly extensively about regional airline safety issues, and as a member and devout viewer of WGBH, which produces "Frontline" here in Boston, and as somebody who has helped out both PBS and WGBH with other shows, I'm a little annoyed they didn't ask for my input.

Jealousy again. Feel free to watch on my behalf. Just don't tell me if they screw something up.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Contact Patrick Smith and look for answers in a future column.

This means a grand tour of sorts of Hispaniola, the island shared in an east-west split between Haiti and the Dominican Republic, whose capitals we'll be stopping in. The border between these nations is one of the few international demarcations clearly visible from 30,000 feet — the latter's green tropical carpet abutting a Haitian deathscape of denuded hillsides the color of sawdust. You could argue that Hispaniola is perhaps the least glamorous landfall in the Caribbean. But you can't beat the weather and the on-board pineapple tray.

With nothing else to do I wander the Port-au-Prince apron. Behind our dormant freighter a row of scarred, treeless hills bakes in the noon heat, raped for charcoal by millions of hungry Haitians. In front of the terminal, men ride past on donkeys and women balance baskets atop their heads. Somebody has started a cooking fire on the sidewalk. Haiti is the poorest country in the entire Western Hemisphere, and the squalor along the airport perimeter is at least as distressing as anything I've seen in Africa.

And, how to say this, it smells. If you've ever been to the tropics, maybe you'll understand: It's not a bad or foul smell, necessarily, and this isn't to be taken as some Ugly American pejorative of things foreign or other-skinned. But it's pungent. For those who live with changing seasons, it's like the smell of a neighbor's fireplace or wood stove on the first cold night of the year. Except it has no season; it's simply always there, ceaseless and permeating like the heat of the Sahara or the numbness of a glacier. It's the odor of rain forests burned, of foliage, charcoal and garbage incinerated — these destructive, ubiquitous pastimes of the Third World — and it hits you the second you step from an airplane in almost every latitudinally challenged republic on earth.

I notice a pallet of large white drums being unloaded from our airplane. Something doesn't look right — crew member intuition — and, concerned that we'd accidentally transported some hazardous material, I ask a loader if he knows what the barrels contain. A forklift carries them to a corner of a ramshackle warehouse, and the driver pries off one of the heavy plastic lids.

What's revealed is a tangled white mass of what appears to be string cheese floating in dirty water. A vague, quiveringly rotten smell rises from the liquid. The driver sticks in his hand and gives the ugly congealment a churn. "For sausage," he answers. What we're looking at, it turns out, is a barrel full of intestines — casings to be stuffed with meat at some horrible Haitian factory. Why the casings need to be imported while the meat itself is apparently on hand, I can't say, but somebody found it necessary to pay the shipping costs and customs duties to fly 400 gallons of intestines from Miami to Port-au-Prince.

Thirty-three minutes away is Santo Domingo, the filth-and-stucco capital of the Dominican Republic — or the D.R., as savvy travelers and baseball announcers love to call it. The neighborhoods around the airport are some of the poorest on the island, and we're two days on the heels of a terrible storm. Most of the roofs are missing, and as our jet drops its tires and aims for the runway at Las Américas International, we look straight into the islanders' concrete-block lives, their belongings violently mingled: plastic bags, rain-soaked clothes, corrugated tin. And in all directions are the triangular, tornado-shaped plumes of garbage fires.

What it lacks in glamour, maybe, Santo Domingo makes up for in history. This is the oldest capital in the New World. With some time to kill, I hire a taxi, this time with no resistance. I'm going to see Christopher Columbus, who died in Spain but whose remains, depending which historian you believe, are interred beneath the cathedral here.

To me there's something about that name, Santo Domingo, that evokes images of 15th-century explorers, their gray-sailed ships anchored offshore. To others, maybe, it's thoughts of the slave trade, of indigenous islanders keeling over from those special European gifts of smallpox and typhus. Or boats taking cannonballs through their hulls, bars of gold falling to the ocean floor.

As with every big capital down here, the whiteness of the skyline is striking. White paint is splashed over everything: hotels, apartment blocks, schools. From the highway it looms ahead, clusters of white buildings set against brilliant blue beachfront; against emerald hillsides; against the mushrooming, oil-black storm clouds. And as the taxi brings me closer, I taste and feel that tropical force of humanity and heat — a grimy ooze through every white crack.

Later, in darkness, we're loading up for the leg home, as it were, to Miami. They've unloaded our pallets of automobile parts and tractor tires — tools that will help turn the landscape of this small country into parking lots and strip malls like the rest of the world — and soon we'll be gone.

I'm in a foul mood, and our captain is a retired Air Force pilot who's boring us to tears with embellished stories: adventures of earthquakes in Pakistan, crash landings in the Kenyan countryside. He's old and his face is wrinkled and it makes me miserable to hear him, because who cares, really, about his stories, now that he's just some old retired serviceman with three ex-wives who's lost all his hair? And I feel myself, like a disease, turning into the next version of this guy.

I'm tired and I need a shower. I've got grease on my shirt. From the metal railing I see the moon. It's an odd, eerily dangling crescent surrounded by an inky redness, like the moon of the Turkish flag. There's something wild and strange about it.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Reports by news outlets have stated that emergency efforts in Haiti have been hampered because the Port-au-Prince airport's radar was knocked out. Can planes take off or land with no air traffic control radar?

First of all, so that everyone understands, "radar" is a somewhat generic term that can mean different things, the same basic technology used for different purposes. We have cockpit radar, for instance, which is used by crews to detect storms and precipitation. But in this context we're talking about air traffic control (ATC) radar, which allows controllers to monitor the position, speed and altitude of flights, sequencing them appropriately. There are radar facilities for the higher, en route sectors of airspace, as well as local, or "terminal," facilities that manage traffic coming and going from particular airports.

But while it might sound primitive, all around the world you will find airports, as well as large swaths of en route airspace, lacking radar coverage. Over the oceans, for example, and in much of Africa. Or at Port-au-Prince. It had no radar even before the earthquake.

Lack of radar means that flights are sequenced "manually" through the use of position reports. Planes on oceanic crossings are spaced by time and altitude along paths or longitude and latitude, sending periodic position reports to distant ATC facilities. In and around airports themselves, controllers handling arrivals and departures will often ask crews for updates on their exact bearing and distance to a particular radio beacon or point-in-space fix, as well as their altitudes, and space them accordingly. Holding patterns are sometimes assigned when multiple flights are inbound, and instructions to turn, climb or descend will sometimes be referenced to fixes, distances or radials. A takeoff clearance might include the following:

"Air Haiti 209, cleared for takeoff. Maintain runway heading until passing 3,000 feet, then turn right on course. Maintain 5,000 feet until passing the 340 radial from the PAP VOR." Occasionally with climbs or descents there's a time restriction: "Cleared to climb from level one-three zero to level two-four zero by time one-six four-five. Report reaching. Time now one-six three-five." In other words, "You've got 10 minutes to climb from 13,000 feet to 24,000 feet, and let us know as soon as you get there."

It sounds old-fashioned — and it is — but it works pretty well, albeit at a much slower pace than at radar-equipped airports. Luckily, if not necessarily, traffic tends to be light at most non-radar airports.

The congestion problem at Port-au-Prince isn't about radar being "knocked out" (it wasn't there in the first place), but rather the sudden influx of humanitarian flights into airspace — and tarmac space — that is normally uncrowded. Up to 200 aircraft a day have been arriving at Toussaint Louverture International, with some stacked in holding patterns for 90 minutes or more. At one point all inbound flights from the U.S. were "ground stopped" due to saturation on and around the airport.

In addition, the Port-au-Prince control tower was badly damaged, requiring U.S. military personnel to set up a temporary facility. The media was conflating the terms "control tower" and "radar." Although tower controllers will use radar, if available, they are not the same things. The loss of the tower, from which aircraft are cleared to taxi, take off and land, was a much more critical issue than a lack of radar it never had.

Speaking of the media, I also heard a CNN reporter describe the Port-au-Prince airport rather emphatically as "tiny." Not sure what that was about. While it might lack the room for dozens of military transport jets, it's pretty spacious by Caribbean standards. It has a 10,000-foot runway and a wide rectangular apron.

There is no such thing as "Air Haiti," by the way. Years ago a small company with that name existed, but today Haiti is one of relatively few countries around the world lacking a national airline. Two others in the region that jump to mind are Guyana and Belize.

As far as earthquakes go, I keep getting asked what might happen if a runway starts shaking just as a jet is taking off or landing. I really don't know. It depends, I guess, on the severity of the shaking and the speed of the plane. I don't know what a magnitude 7 temblor feels like, but suffice it to say things would get bumpy. Probably not bumpy enough, however, to damage anything, as aircraft are designed to withstand some pretty severe jolts. As we know, it's not the shaking of the ground that kills and injures people, but rather buildings falling on top of them. Overall, a plane is probably a pretty safe place to be — much safer than a building.

A runway coming apart is another story. Striking a fissure at high speed would be dangerous — albeit statistically unlikely. I am not aware of anything like that ever happening, although the 1974 disaster film "Earthquake" features a scene where a 707 touches down just as a major temblor hits Los Angeles. The runway fractures and the crew executes a go-around just in the nick of time.

The last scheduled passenger flight to leave Port-au-Prince after the quake was an American Airlines flight to Miami. Presumably the crew ensured that runway conditions were safe. This would have been done by taxiing along the surface, and/or by sending a vehicle out to assess things.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Contact Patrick Smith through his Web site and look for answers in a future column.