“This is sort of choose your own adventure,” Ryan Pettit, a technical fellow with Boeing’s flight-controls division, told me. We were sitting in the pilot seats of a multipurpose simulator cab. From the inside, it looked like the flight deck of a 777, complete with banks of gauges, switches, and digital screens, and a view of Mt. Rainier through the windshield. From the outside, it looked like a giant, one-eyed robot: a cabin perched on three mechanical legs more than two stories tall. In months of chasing turbulence, the closest I’d come to it on a commercial flight was in Texas, when a thunderstorm struck my plane just as it was preparing to land in Austin. “Folks, it looks like it’ll be smooth sailing for the first hour and forty-five minutes,” the pilot had warned, as we left New York. “Then it’s all downhill from there.” But this simulator was nothing if not reliable. It was turbulence on demand.
In its 35-year history, Birmingham's Symphony Hall will surely have experienced few nights like this.
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