How To Talk To Strangers On An Airplane
Guys, I did that thing. I chopped it up with my seatmate. But did it matter?
Hours prior to takeoff, I was assigned a new seat like a troublemaker in Algebra I. Back row…Of the entire 77 row plane. Luckily this row was just a two-seater. Pioneer Business Select as I like to call it. And I wasn’t sitting next to…(fill in the blank with your nightmare seatmate so I don’t get canceled for it). I was sitting next to Payton. It’s not Payton. But let’s just go with Payton.
Payton was intriguing. She looked like she had just stepped out of a Pacifico ad. Her rustic presence at war with the confines of a United flight. I shared no such energy. Slowly coming to terms with an incoming illness. A common cold turned violently uncommon days later. A virus so furious, it debilitated my newslettering abilities all week. And Payton didn’t seem to be in the mood to go airpods out either. She was locked into a playlist, firing off texts in multiple groupers. (I spy on all my seatmates phones for national security.)
However, even in my weakened state, I was tempted to meet this stranger. I had yet to receive my complimentary pair of noise de-canceling ear buds, glued together by the pilot’s spit and recycled Reynolds wrap. Ears exposed, I was vulnerable to unexpected conversation. But something needed to happen. Just one small miracle that could change the trajectory of this entire flight.
Luckily there were three.
Miracle #1: Upon boarding I was gifted a wet wipe by the flight attendant. These are designed for your hands. But in the throes of illness anxiety, I went full Howie Mandel. Started with my hands then flirted with some forearms before taking that wet wipe to the armrests and the seat-back entertainment system. If regret didn’t immediately follow, it surely crept up moments later, once the cabin smelled like a damn Vodka factory.
Miracle #2: I believe my wipe-down move short circuited the seat-back screen. I couldn’t start DWP if Simon Baker's life depended on it. I did take the free United buds just in case, but that shatterproof glass was DOA.
Miracle #3: After 10,000 feet of sky climbing, Payton pulled out her laptop. She had some work to do. But after having little issue taking her credit card info, the onboard Wifi decided to skip over her seat. Mine worked. Even if I only opted for free messaging (I don’t fly and scroll). But I kept to myself. Afraid to utter a word after my disinfecting disaster.
These might not sound like miracles. More like setbacks. But I had what she needed. Wifi access. She had what I wanted. The Devil Wears Prada. And that’s what Shakespeare called dramatic conflict. That’s what I call a damn good newsletter.
Finally, Payton turned to me and politely asked if my Wifi was cooking. With gas, I told her. I asked if her seat-back screen was firing. With velocity, she advised me. So I flagged down the flight attendant. Slipped him a drink voucher and asked if he’d look into the situation. But no system reset could stop what had begun. An airborne connection. And before I get ahead of my keys, let’s get one thing out of the way.
It couldn’t be romantic.
And I was content with that…Sure, Payton was quite striking. Ethereal even. And sure, she was a competitive collegian surfer moving into a finance career, who at points during school, lived out of a van in Iceland then spent another semester in the Netherlands. And sure, she’s currently a waiter at a high end sushi restaurant that might or might not rhyme with Yobu, meaning unparalleled access to salmon nigiri. I totally was okay with it being buddy buddy. Because I didn’t know any of these details yet. Within the first few minutes of our conversation, all I knew was she took the weekend to visit her LDB (long distance boyf). That and she thought I was the Unabomber after disinfecting our entire row. So my field positioning wasn’t great. Neither was my timing. It took two small miracles to overcome the first. Flight friends is all I could hope for.
But over the course of 5 hours, each of these details was revealed through historically effortless conversation. Conversation that would stop then start again. Sometimes after I nailed a Tucci zinger, word for word, as she watched Devil Wears Prada on her (operational) seat back screen. Other times during the constant interruptions of air travel. Each micro-conversation easier than the last. Constantly re-gauging how much is safe or appropriate to reveal about our past. Our baggage. Our present doubts. Our fears for the future. I told her about this writing. The past setbacks. The creeping failure I’m terrified of. And she told me about her hesitant future. An oncoming finance job that would take up more time than most. Having to move across the country to a new city to do so. Then there were the travel stories we traded. That’s where it got good. So I’ll skip ahead. Up to the moment I asked how many cigs she blasted in Amsterdam. Payton rolled her eyes.
“Last year didn’t count.” She said.
Goddamn…What a concept. What an absolute statement on presence. An antidote to regret. A recognition of the past void of determining the future. Payton found it funny that I was floored by her excuse for engaging in the dart arts. But it didn’t matter why she said it. Her words hung in the air like the Purell bomb I set off upon takeoff. Stuck with me too. Till landing. On the Jetway. And even during our obligatory will they/won’t they half-silent walk to baggage claim.
Maybe that flight didn’t count (see what I did there). Five hours in complete isolation from our lives down below (aight…I’ll quit stroking it). Payton and I might never speak again. Some real Ethan Hawke shit if you ask me. And if we do, who knows if the Wifi will be cooking. If the screens will be firing. We could just be strangers to each other once again. Because last year didn’t count. This year doesn’t either. Next year is up for debate too. Guess all we can do is take the airpods out when we want. Maybe write a newsletter two weeks later when it means something.
But one day it might count. Whenever that may be.