Some pretty questionable parenting was taking place in the row in front of me.
“If you don’t get quiet and sit still you’re going to make the plane crash and then everyone will die. Do you want that?”
Interestingly, each time the toddler’s parents threatened him with self-imposed death, the boy just seemed to double-down on his fidgety behavior.
This was the catalyst that moved the man beside me to begin our conversation. He was clearly mortified.
“The kid needs to ditch those parents,” he whispered to me as though we were instantly bonded in mutual dislike for the adults sitting in front of us.
And so the conversation with my flight seatmate started. He was chatty and eager to interact from the get-go. It was a little much but nonetheless entertaining, at times interesting, and helped pass the hours in the air. Perfect. I learned he and his wife recently relocated from southern California to beautiful Napa, he despised Donald Trump, his kids both attended college at Cal, and on his last family trip to Hawaii, they took a terrifying helicopter tour sans doors. This man was a huge Minnesota sports fan and worked as an executive in Human Resources.
There is a small segment of alliances I occasionally make in which each of the relationships has three things in common: They all last approximately two hours, neither of us knows the other’s name, and we never speak again after we’ve bid adieu. These are my airplane relationships. Superficial, civil, and light most of the time, every so often informative and enlightening, and even life-changing on one occasion.
During those hours in the air, information can be divulged and stories exchanged. Within the flight relationship, there is an ease in the conversation, a certain safety and comfort that accompanies the anonymity of our identities. You have no idea who I am and we will never engage again. No investment, no expectations, and definitely no obligation. Knowing that neither of us has an agenda other than trying to pass the time with some light conversation provides for relaxed, unharnessed communicating. There is a mutual understanding that this symbiotic relationship holds; it allows for complete removal of any shred of care of what this other person’s opinion is of me.
My relationship with my boyfriend happens to be one of long-distance. He lives near Denver; my home is just outside Sacramento. We both do a lot of flying to visit one another and, as with all travel, exposure to many different types of individuals is inevitable. If they are of the extroverted set, they enjoy connecting and getting to know others even if just for a short time. At times I prefer to sleep or stay within myself on a flight. But given I’m social by nature, I’m usually receptive to others’ efforts to engage, even if it’s just a brief hello when settling in to our seats. As Oprah once said, everyone has a story. Sitting trapped in your seat, three inches apart from an outgoing stranger brings that perfect opportunity when you have time to kill.
But I’m not always so Pollyanna about people. I see the potential for negative interactions, too, and try to avoid toxic in-flight exchanges as best I can. Like the perceived alcoholic in his sixties who seemed to have an unlimited number of free Southwest drink coupons. At last count, he had consumed five beverages. The more refills the flight attendant delivered to him, the more he wanted to ask me about the shoes I had on, my reading material, where I was going, and if I had a ride home arranged.
He asked, “Are you headed home to Sacramento? Or do you live in Denver?” Ugh. The breath. Directly onto my face, I could practically taste it.
The second half of his conversation took place with the back of my head but I don’t think he noticed or cared.
It’s a crap shoot who will accompany us flying 500 mph at 35,000 feet above the ground, with nowhere to go. My boyfriend recounted one experience about a year ago when a very large, very drunk man vomited repeatedly beside him. Most made it into the bag.
Then there was a lovely young couple, married three years. They readily expressed to me their frustrations at having been unsuccessful conceiving. I have always considered myself to be open and pretty down-to-earth, but open was taken to a whole new level when they shared their intimate— and what should be a very private— struggle with me. I sat down in the aisle seat beside them and no more than 15 minutes into the flight the wife said hello, made small talk, and asked if I had children. I told her I did. After several cordial questions about my girls, the woman asked if I had had any difficulty conceiving. After the initial shock of her question wore off, I was hesitant to tell her just how incredibly easy it was, that actually, both pregnancies came to fruition on the first attempts. So I simply broke it down to: “It wasn’t too difficult.” This poor woman was desperate and heartbroken and her husband wasn’t far behind her. She seemed to be venting and emoting rather than conversing. By the end of the flight, I was emotionally drained. Not only did I feel for this couple as they so yearned to become parents, our conversation left me feeling voyeuristic. I’ll never know how their story plays out but from time to time I do think of them.
Most of my flight companions are pleasant and don’t initiate heavy conversation as did the couple dealing with infertility. Usually if there is flight talk, it’s not controversial and stays upbeat. We typically have the expected chit-chat of why we are flying to our destination, the weather, and other not-too-personal topics. But one conversation in particular was a game-changer for me and I truly believe I was meant to meet to this woman.
I was standing in line at the gate in Denver, getting ready to board for Sacramento, when a proper-sounding voice behind me said, “Isn’t this a civilized way to board a plane? When I travel in Europe we are treated like cattle.” I turned around as I realized she was talking to me.
“Yes, it’s really easy. The assigned letter and number makes a difference,” I responded.
She told me she had recently been doing a lot of flying while traveling in Italy and had to come home to Denver unexpectedly for her mother’s funeral. I expressed my condolences and she said it was somewhat of a relief as her mother had been suffering for years from advanced Alzheimer’s. As I learned more about what she had been through, I mentioned that my mom, too, had recently been showing occasional signs of progressive aging, particularly over the past year or so. As my mom’s changes had been subtle and not overly frequent, a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s seemed premature. But increased anxiety from my previously- easygoing mom is what has been so disturbing to me. And I am not proud of my lack of patience. It has been heartbreaking for me to watch my mom changing, seemingly scared of things that never concerned her before, no longer the go-with-the-flow mom I've always known her to be. My mom has become ultra-compulsive about following up with goings-on in my life as well as those of my daughters. Constant texting and calling; not content until any issue at hand is resolved. She forgets words. She is somewhat slower in response, both physical and verbal. But my main issue not so much her changing, but my inability to accept these changes with grace. I haven't liked my reactions or the person I've been when my mom displays even small signs of deterioration. The kind woman in line clearly understood what I was describing. She said that she, too, experienced those very emotions of frustration and impatience while watching her mother decline.
It was time for us to move forward into the plane. This saintly woman followed me to the row I selected and sat down next to me. We sat silently the entire flight, both of us reading our books. Just after landing, as we were readying to leave the plane, she spoke to me and said, “The only advice I would like to give you is this: Love your mother for who she is now, not who she used to be, not the mother you are still expecting her to be. It’s ok to start mourning the loss of who your mother has always been but embrace and love her for who she is now.”
Fresh off the experience of her own mother’s recent funeral, I’m sure her thoughts were raw. But her powerful words soaked in and have stayed cemented within me. Every single day. Just a chance meeting with this complete stranger on a plane forced my perspective about my mom to shift and, as a result, made me recognize my expectations must shift as well. To love my mom for who she is now. This generous stranger made a difference.
I have stepped it up. Thank you, nameless woman. Because of your words, my mom has benefited.
Airline friendships—when they do happen-- are brief and generally insignificant. But every once in a while there may be a person who books the same flight as you, crosses your path, and positively impacts your day or even your course.