I've been commuting back and forth to Phoenix for the better part of two years now, usually on a Tuesday through Thursday pattern and always on Southwest. When you have that much of a habit, you start to notice similarities in your fellow passengers, the crew, the take-off and landing routine, the in-flight security schpeel, etc. There have been signs that I fly too much. Like, for instance, I know that my orange suitcase will fit end-to-end in bins three through X, while my red one will fit that way into any of the bins, allowing me to sit closer to the front. I also know that the clutch seats are windows and aisles from row three through the emergency exit rows, because those middles aren't close enough to the front to entice people to take them, and most will pass them up in the hopes of a window or aisle (or some bin space) in the back. It's also probably a sign that most of the TSA agents in OAK and PHX look familiar by now and some of them know me well enough to comment, "you come through here a lot, don't you?" Or perhaps it's the fact that I can assume the position in the creepy body scanners in about five seconds flat, and get out and on my way in under 30 - if I had a dime for every time a TSA agent had said, "you fly a lot, don't you?," I would be rich.
All of this has been true for the past nine to ten months, but the surest sign that I've overdosed on air miles has come over the summer. For months, I flew back and forth, sometimes with the same people, but never frequently enough to really know who they were. There was the Indian guy who worked for Intel who always had a construction-cone orange suitcase, and the always-rushed, super-serious, duffel-bag-wielding businessman with a slight pompadour, and the kind-of wooly guy with a neck pillow and good Bose headphones. But this summer, these guys began having names. I mean, when someone you've been on the same route with for months sits in your row finally, you can't pretend like you've never seen them before, right? So, it turns out that the serious guy is Jeff, a father of two who works in Phoenix Tuesday through Thursday because he and his wife tried to move permanently, and couldn't sell their house in the Bay Area so they had to move back. He's probably that serious because he's trying to make it home in time to put his kids to bed after being away for three days. And the wooly guy is David, a tango and music aficionado who also works from Phoenix three days a week, and is one of the few people on the plane who out-ranks me in frequent flier miles and gets a lower-numbered A-group boarding pass.
These two, in particular, have sort-of become my airplane husbands, or if not that, then my airplane family. Jeff and I have an unspoken agreement that if I get on first and get a window, he takes the aisle and generally makes the middle look occupied. We chat for a bit and then he reads his book and I sleep, and when we get to Phoenix, he always takes my suitcase down for me and sets it in the aisle-way. Yes, he knows which one it is, red or orange. David always chats with me in line about how my week was and what the weekend plans are. This week he recommended the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival, and complimented me on my "superbly coordinated" blouse, sweater and green sandals. It's moments like these that reinforce for me that people are fundamentally kind, generous and interesting. I appreciate the solicitousness and care, and the general bonhomie of a fellow traveler.
To Jeff, David and all the folks who have been with me through repeated cycles of wheels up and tarmac down: safe travels, be well, and many thanks for having my back and making one of the world's longest commutes much more pleasurable.
All of this has been true for the past nine to ten months, but the surest sign that I've overdosed on air miles has come over the summer. For months, I flew back and forth, sometimes with the same people, but never frequently enough to really know who they were. There was the Indian guy who worked for Intel who always had a construction-cone orange suitcase, and the always-rushed, super-serious, duffel-bag-wielding businessman with a slight pompadour, and the kind-of wooly guy with a neck pillow and good Bose headphones. But this summer, these guys began having names. I mean, when someone you've been on the same route with for months sits in your row finally, you can't pretend like you've never seen them before, right? So, it turns out that the serious guy is Jeff, a father of two who works in Phoenix Tuesday through Thursday because he and his wife tried to move permanently, and couldn't sell their house in the Bay Area so they had to move back. He's probably that serious because he's trying to make it home in time to put his kids to bed after being away for three days. And the wooly guy is David, a tango and music aficionado who also works from Phoenix three days a week, and is one of the few people on the plane who out-ranks me in frequent flier miles and gets a lower-numbered A-group boarding pass.
These two, in particular, have sort-of become my airplane husbands, or if not that, then my airplane family. Jeff and I have an unspoken agreement that if I get on first and get a window, he takes the aisle and generally makes the middle look occupied. We chat for a bit and then he reads his book and I sleep, and when we get to Phoenix, he always takes my suitcase down for me and sets it in the aisle-way. Yes, he knows which one it is, red or orange. David always chats with me in line about how my week was and what the weekend plans are. This week he recommended the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival, and complimented me on my "superbly coordinated" blouse, sweater and green sandals. It's moments like these that reinforce for me that people are fundamentally kind, generous and interesting. I appreciate the solicitousness and care, and the general bonhomie of a fellow traveler.
To Jeff, David and all the folks who have been with me through repeated cycles of wheels up and tarmac down: safe travels, be well, and many thanks for having my back and making one of the world's longest commutes much more pleasurable.
