Posts tagged airplanes

I fly all the time and way too much—I've been doing so for about fifteen years now—and the vast majority of flights are absolutely banal and boring. (And happily, none have featured the slightest bit of danger or drama that we witnessed in New York yesterday afternoon.) But three times I have had conversations with a stranger that I will never, ever forget—moments that are on a very short list of the most treasured and important events of my life. This essay by Lindsey Crittenden is a lovely and evocative reminder of the possibilities that surround us—even when they remain only possibilities.

re: airplanes, friendship, love, transport, travel

Andy:

His name was Peter, and he carried an L.L. Bean canvas bag, monogrammed and trimmed in forest green. It was December 28, 1988, and I noticed him at the gate. Preppy, but kind of cute. And then we boarded, and he took the seat next to mine. American Airlines; JFK to SFO; a DC-10, which meant a layout of two-five-two. I had the window, and he the aisle. We gave each other brief, courteous nods, he stashed his L.L. Bean bag, and I turned back to my book, sneaking an occasional glance his way.

The flight attendants did their familiar demonstration. The plane pulled away from the gate and taxied onto the runway. The plane stopped. The captain came on and made a lame joke. Peter (although I didn’t know his name yet) and I exchanged glances, rolling our eyes in shared wariness. He said something, I said something, and we didn’t stop talking for the next six hours, during which I didn’t look at my book or attempt the movie.

By the time the plane landed at SFO, we knew each other’s names, hometowns, employers, current neighborhoods, and how our mothers didn’t approve of the people we were dating—in my case, because the guy, in Mom’s words, “acted like a kindergartener,” and in Peter’s because the woman wasn’t WASPy enough, a fact Peter underlined by gesturing toward the L.L. Bean bag at his feet.