I'm disconnected. I can't communicate with anyone. I'm in seat 13J of a seemingly endless flight from Madrid to Miami and I can't use my cell phone, nor do I have access to the Internet or e-mail. For everyone, I have ceased to exist.

      Through the window, the frozen Iceland landscape takes form below, while my seat companion snores with the tormented murmur of a caged animal. Pouring from her headphones I can hear the screams of a raging rapper, but nothing disturbs her sleep. I, on the other hand, can't sleep. It is a day flight, an Eskimo revenge to teach us how the people of the North Pole suffer with a sun that doesn't want to set.

      I've already taken a nap, watched two movies, been three times to the bathroom, and took four bites of a rubber chicken and a bunch of rubber bands called spaghetti. To tell the truth, what I really want to do is gossip with my friends over the phone, tell them about the energy you find in the streets of Madrid, and answer some of the 893 e-mail messages that I'm sure are waiting for me at the office. But I can't.

      Maybe I'm addicted to e-mails. A while ago I heard on National Public Radio (NPR) that Americans receive an average of 90 e-mails a day; that is a huge increase from the eight messages they received five years ago. It's likely that, due to the lack of e-mails, at 35,000 feet, I'm suffering from the same withdrawal symptoms that people who quit smoking or drinking experience.

      Airlines insist that Internet and cell phones interfere with aircraft flight instruments. That may be so, although nobody has ever taken the time to explain why. However, it's ridiculous that technology allows us to take pictures of the frozen Saturn moon but no one's invented something to allow us to make cell phone calls from the air. For me, there's something fishy about their argument. Could it be that they would rather have us quiet?

      My appeals to get an upgrade to first class were defeated by a insipid-looking bald guy who arrived at the airport three hours before I did. The cramps in my legs have spread to my head and a murderous question jumps to my mind: Who designs these child-size mini-seats for trans-Atlantic flights?

      Here, from the exile of tourist class, I can only manage to see the heads of those privileged first class passengers, who paid $2,000 or more for a glass of champagne, a caviar omelet, a borrowed DVD and a huge seat that can be reclined like a bed. Each also has one of those phones that work with credit cards and that charge $10 per minute so that you can say "hello" to your mom or your friends from the sky. Every call is like a macabre prelude to death _ maybe that's why nobody uses them.

      My knees rub against the rough surface of the seat in front of me. The sparse hair of my neighbor is only seven inches away from my eyes. But the torture has begun to take effect. As a yogi in full meditation, I begin to appreciate the silence around me. It will be several hours before we arrive, and I have nothing else to do but think and rest.

      There are no phones ringing, or people shouting into that little device _ why is it that we raise our voices so when we talk on the cell phone? I don't hear the sound of neurotic fingers dancing on the keys of a computer. I can't listen to the radio or have access to 250 TV channels; I have no idea of the news of the day.

      The zoom of the plane's turbines soon becomes just an Om. And this is when I suddenly realize the marvel of being disconnected.

      Nobody knows where I am and nobody can reach me. Everything has to wait: the beeper, the cell phone, phone-calls to home, work appointments, the piercing BlackBerry, e-mails, instant messages and text messaging on the cellphone. Urgency fades. I know nothing.

      On land we are slaves of communication, we live a life of ultra-connection. There's not a single moment, not even in the bathroom, when we can escape. We exist surrounded, crowded. And even when you want to disappear, there is always a camera playing Big Brother on you _ the one in the bank, in the store, in the office, on television, in surveillance; the one from the voyeur, who follows you on the beach, the one in the apartment and even in your car. The global village is a prison.

      Ah, but in the air we can disconnect. Airplanes allow us to escape, to recover the elusive art of being alone without feeling guilty. However, this, too, may soon come to an end.

      The U.S. Federal Communications Commission and the Federal Aviation Administration are considering two little gifts: access to the Internet on all U.S. airplanes starting in 2006 and the use of cell phones, in the air, shortly thereafter.

      And suddenly, the idea leaves me horrified: I imagine my seat companion talking nine hours on the cell phone and being bombarded by the incessant click of keyboards on computers connected to chat sites on the Internet, which would, undoubtedly, send me looking for the nearest emergency exit. Silence, suddenly, comforts me.

      In this, I'm not alone: Seven out of 10 American travelers, according to a USA Today/CNN/Gallup poll, want to keep in effect the prohibition of cell phones on planes. And the Flight Attendants Association, which has 40,000 members in 26 airlines, also supports the prohibition.

      Thus, in this special moment, am I grateful for the blessing of being disconnected from the world for a while. I lean back in my seat, fold my hands across my stomach, close my eyes and, without falling asleep, I just smile.