Flight from New York to Las Vegas, noon, left side of the plane.

At 32,000 feet, there are ice crystals on my window and we're flying above snow-covered peaks. Yet the sun through my window is so relentlessly hot and strong that I have to keep the shade down, and when I touch it, it burns me.

I usually take the position of the sun into consideration when choosing my plane seat, but this time, common sense eluded me! I feel like a rotisserie chicken.