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Everybody complains nowadays about airline meals. But although the glory days of elegant travel, in a more civilized age, have come to an end for the typical coach passenger, there is still a lot of unexpected pleasure to be encountered while en route.

Most of this has to do with adequate preparation for the rigors of a journey: for years, now, I have never boarded a plane without carrying a bit of food along with me, secreted in my leather satchel. Simplicity is the watchword. An apple, a piece of bread and cheese, is standard fare if I am leaving from home—or, with luck, a piece of banana bread, if I am leaving from my parents' house in Los Angeles. If I am on the road, a small bag of figs or dried apricots can't be beat, with perhaps a few walnuts. Armed with such supplies, I feel smugly detached from the excruciating slowness of the food-and-beverage cart being wheeled down the aisle towards my seat. This also means that I can be really paying attention to whatever John D. MacDonald novel I am reading (almost as important a companion on an airline adventure as the edible treats).

On my most recent transatlantic trip, I attempted a very grand scheme. An article in the New York Times convinced me to try a "Do-It-Yourself Airline Meal," and it was indeed a dazzling recipe. On the evening before departing, I concocted a salade composé with new potatoes, pork loin, fresh pattypan squash and sorrel, garnered from the local Farmer's Market, and "bound together" with a lemony vinaigrette dressing. My heroic husband offered to transport this meal, which grew to enormous proportions when surrounded by foam packaging and a frozen ice-pack to keep it all cold—and we ended up wolfing it down in the Washington-Dulles airport before boarding our flight to Amsterdam. (I'm ashamed to say that we ate the airline meal also.)

All of this goes to show that eating on the road is fun, in itself, almost no matter what is on the plate (or, tiny plastic tray). In fact, I've tentatively begun to expect the odd and unexpected serendipity. After all, it's what those adventure heroes in mythical tales seem to keep running into—and, as an extremely well-traveled financier friend of mine reiterates, "Getting there is half the fun." (He and his wife once flew to Africa from New York to spend three days' vacation.)

Last year, on a trip to London, I plunked my backpack down on the assigned seat next to one of the most glamorous women I have ever seen. Elizabeth (as I soon found out) used to be a model, and for a time, an actress—and ours instantly became one of those friendships which start rivetingly with a non-stop, overnight conversation.

This set the benchmark for my own personal specifications on impromptu flying companions. A couple of trips later, I lucked out sensationally yet again: Eric is as top-league a raconteur as they come, and after he had told me enough amusing stories to keep me shaking with laughter for several hours, I suggested that we stage a picnic. The dried apricots made an appearance from my own stores, and I went to the back of the plane and raided the galley for more cheese, crackers, and Toblerone bars. The real coup followed: at my earnest entreaty, he taught me how to play poker (a long-cherished personal goal).

This brings me to the final indispensable necessity while traveling: one deck of cards will pay endless dividends. Solitaire makes a nice break from reading, on very long flights. If you should happen to meet friendly children, on board a plane, this is a sure-fire way to entertain everyone concerned. When I first tried out this scheme, I taught whoever agreed to play cards the couple of games that I knew—but I quickly realized that any knowledgeable child is more than able to teach you his or her own favorite ones. A couple of lively German boys once educated me into the terrific game of Schlafmutze, while we were all suspended somewhere over the Atlantic. The actual rules of this contest remain hazy in my mind, except for the triumphant moment when one player slams his hand of cards on the rickety table and shouts "Schlafmutze." ("Sleepyhead" was their translation, and that's what you were, if you were the last person to do it, after which they shrieked with merriment).

Still, the crucial ingredient while traveling is food: a recent disastrous London to Washington-Dulles flight which I took involved remaining fourteen hours straight, on board. The ginger biscuits I had brought along had long since been eaten, and the package of figs—oh, no!—chucked into the garbage bin (incoming fruit being verboten by agricultural customs officials), when it became clear that the airline had not loaded on any additional supplies when the second flight crew was boarded on our second take-off from Heathrow. Offered the choice between a package of crisps or a candy bar (not, I may add, even a Toblerone) at two o'clock in the morning made me very cross.

The next opportunity to acquire real food came the following morning, when (still en route) I snatched a bagel from the ubiquitous Starbucks in the airport while dashing for the next flight. Happily, I was able to split this with the hungry man sitting across the aisle from me (who, unlike me, had not heeded the cardinal rule of airplane travel). However, when I finally staggered into the Austin airport a few hours later, my husband immediately swept me off to the spectacular Sunday Brunch at the Four Seasons Hotel. Every returning adventurer should be so lucky.

Janice Rossen loves European travel, especially when fortified by Swiss chocolate bars

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