When my aircraft is plummeting from thousands of feet above, I’d prefer my final moments to be spent in a chemistry-induced fog, than be alert and have to listen to the rueful virgin sitting next to me wail about “never having done ‘it’.” There’s evidence that being in a crash whilst inebriated or zoned out has its merits. Rajinikanth, in one of his older movies, sat
stoically through an impending crash, totally sloshed. (But he became tediously philosophical by the time the plane landed.)
You can see why sleeping pills should be an essential part of any traveller’s kit.
Now, keep in mind timing and dosage. You consult a doctor about these things, but I figured it out through trial and mostly, error. One tablet left me shy of stupor; and I could still feel the aircraft bucking through a storm like a wild bull in a cow pen. Three tablets were too many; and I spent ten minutes blathering before immigration, hunting for my passport which—the amused immigration dude did not let on—had been clenched between my teeth all along. Duh. Two pills. Two is the magic number that will keep you blissfully oblivious and safe from anxietyinduced, irreparable brain damage. For approximately four hours.
Well, it gets you there.