Today we’re heading to Inle Lake in northeastern Myanmar. We had the option of taking a 12-hour overnight bus ride, or paying extra for an hour flight. It was an easy decision, but one I found myself questioning once we arrived at Yangon Domestic Airport, an astoundingly primitive operation.

Put simply: buses don’t fall out of the sky.

In one of my early posts I summarized my fears of travel, one of which is flying. I don’t like to talk a lot about this one – it’s such an unoriginal fear – but today, as I sit here in this dilapidated airport terminal anxiously awaiting my delayed flight, it is the main thing on my mind. Through grubby windows I can see the tarmac where a handful of 737s dwarf an already slight-looking propeller plane. I’m fairly certain the propeller plane is mine, which has me on edge. It’s barely 2:00pm but I’m considering a beer from the concession stand (or a Xanax, which I carry for times exactly like these).

Maybe both.

My degree of mistrust in a flight’s safety is determined before we ever leave the ground. Like a complex chemical equation, various inputs add to or detract from this confidence.  Because once you’re in the air, it’s too late to do anything about anything. I don’t pay attention to the safety demonstration; in the event of a water landing, I’ll have no idea how to retrieve my life vest. Generally an optimist, I don’t believe there will be any cracking open of the emergency exit (let’s face it, nobody’s making it out alive). Still, when she asks, I promise the stewardess that if there is an emergency I will help.

Anything for the extra legroom.

It probably comes as no surprise that superstition is a major factor in my equation. Friday the 13th is a definite no-fly day unless absolutely unavoidable. Similarly, the effect of Murphy’s Law should not be overlooked. There have been times when, like many San Francisco-bound travelers, I’ve sprinted to the gate of an Oakland-bound flight and begged for a seat to avoid waiting out SFO’s fog-closure. And yet, when they do re-issue my ticket I’m left with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, certain that if anything was going to crash that evening it will be the plane I just selected.  I would imagine the oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling and me explaining to my seat mate: “This is because of me. I’m really sorry.”

The airport itself plays a part. Do we have to walk out onto the tarmac or is there a jet-way? A jet-way is always preferred – this means the airport takes flying seriously enough to provide proper entrance to the plane. And how high-tech is the ticket counter? Today, at Yangon Domestic Airport, I checked in at a booth that was not unlike the kind from which you pick up your laminated name tag at a convention. There was no computer system, only a notebook with my name in it. An especially bad sign.

The security checkpoint is an obvious one. I am not one of those travelers who gripes about removing my shoes (and scarf and belt and sweater). I don’t mind pulling out my laptop. Oh my camera, too? That’s fine. And as for those new, state of the art x-ray machines that people complain ‘reveal too much’? To them I ask: what is it that you have to hide? Modesty seems a small price to pay for peace of mind. I’d gladly waltz naked through security if they asked us to.

But, as I’ve come to learn, America’s security standards are the highest (or most absurd, depending on where you stand on the matter). I feel a new compassion for the foreigners I watch scratching their heads (and wearing shoes) in America’s security checkpoints. In airports abroad, bottles of water are no problem and shoes and jackets don’t require examination. Still, like an undercover agent, I scrutinize my fellow passengers. They are a major indicator of whether or not the flight will be a safe one and this cuts both ways.

Grandmotherly types and mothers with small children are both excellent signs. Monks and nuns are even better. I simply won’t believe the universe would put them in harm’s way just for the fun of it, and I gladly ride their coattails.

Traveling in foreign countries also has me seeking westerners. This is particularly shameful, I know, but there is something intrinsically reassuring about flying among the voices of the English-speaking. If they think the plane is safe enough to climb into, well then we have a consensus.

I like to get a good look at the pilot if I can. Is he walking okay? Coughing? Does he look well rested? Older pilots are better than younger ones – but not too old. I don’t want one nearing retirement, he might be getting sloppy. And I prefer my pilot to look happy; I want to know he has something to live for. If he’s carrying a venti-size coffee cup I take notice. Are there dark circles beneath his eyes?  I’m not sure what I would do if ever I suspected my pilot was intoxicated. How does one broach this subject?  I hope I don’t ever find out.

And finally, most obviously, the actual airplane. As a rule of thumb, the bigger the plane the better. This has as much to do with the reduced effects of turbulence as it does with the media. The world hears when a 757 ‘crash lands’ (an oxymoron if ever there was one), but I wouldn’t put it past CNN to overlook a story about a small propeller plane going down in Myanmar. Particularly if it’s a heavy news day. Maybe a celebrity wedding.

Jet engines are preferred over propellers, never mind what happened with the birds and that flight that landed in the Hudson. And the plane’s interior is not to be ignored, either. The other evening we flew Bangkok Air, a self-described ‘boutique airline’ (what makes them think that’s a good thing?). I had to switch seats because mine wouldn’t stay upright; this was one of the worst signs I’ve ever encountered. If they cannot take a wrench to a bolt in a seat-back, what else are they letting slide?

Virgin is by far the safest airline. Amenities like seat-to-seat-texting and mood lighting says to me they’ve mastered mundane airplane maintenance to such a degree that their mechanics can also manage these bells and whistles. Their cartoon safety video is good-nature ‘F-you’ to the FAA and suggests they agree with me: no safety measure will make a difference if the plane goes down.

I like pragmatism in an airline.

Branding can also be telling. I’ve noticed a surge of airlines with lighthearted slogans and bubbly logos that seem more appropriate for a party supply store. I avoid flying these, siding instead with the stodgy airlines. When in doubt, go with the old boys. The tried and true. That is, of course, if Virgin won’t fly you where you’re headed.

My flight now boards in fifteen minutes. Blessedly, some American tourists have materialized.

I’ve never actually considered not boarding a flight. I know some people do this sort of thing, but out of principle I would not. It’s a slippery slope, see. No matter how accurate I feel my aforementioned criteria is, to actually begin acting on it would only inconvenience myself. The drive home from Yangon, I hear, is a very, very, long one.