Last night I made an airplane friend! A legit, now-I-know-your-name-and-will-address-you-as-such-in-the-neighborhood airplane friend. Granted he is 52, and probably not BFF material, but he’s someone I didn’t know yesterday and I do today. So that’s something.
What’s funny is that we sat next to each other for a three-hour flight, which was really closer to four considering we sat on the plane for 45 minutes after landing while the flight crew searched down the gate agent to open the airplane door, and we didn’t speak a word the whole time. I was too busy watching the man and woman in the row ahead of us get acquainted, them exchanging life stories and me eavesdropping to see if they would just trade phone numbers already.
It was only after we deplaned, and my husband and I noticed how offensively long the cab line was, that we started talking to our plane neighbor. He too was horrified by the cab line. When he saw our faces, and how quickly we made a u-turn, he asked if we were thinking of taking the train.
Where do you live? he asked.
Lincoln Park. Near DePaul.
He mentioned his cross streets and, wouldn’t you know it, we are next door neighbors! One block apart! So the three of us took the train together, chatting about work and the neighborhood and NATO. His name was David, we learned, and we offered him a ride home from the train station.
And now we are neighbor pals. Count on delayed flights and backed up cab lines to bring people together.
So at least one relationship took off in those friendly skies. I’ll confess to you that I got all Harriet-the-Spy on the couple in front of me to see if love was blooming, and sadly they parted ways as soon as she got to the airport restroom. Such a bummer.
It seems everyone has gotten to know a neighbor in the most unlikely of places. What about you?