Last week, I flew back to Ohio to visit my parents. I grew up in the midwest, and live there for the first thirty-five years of my life. For the past ten, I've lived in Seattle.
On the plane to Ohio, I noticed how friendly people were. I hated it. Was I becoming a misanthrope?
The guy next to me on the flight kept looking at me like he wanted to talk, but I didn't give him an opening. I cracked open my 770+ page copy of The Goldfinch so he wouldn't try to engage me. I wasn't even sure I wanted to read. I mostly wanted to stare stupidly out the window. When I started to stretch to turn on the overhead light, the guy next to me turned it on. I was annoyed. Maybe he was lonely. I didn't care. I didn't want to talk to him. He didn't look awful or anything. I was just not in the mood to chat. The nicer he tried to be, the worse I felt for being standoffish.
I didn't want to be asked the most obvious questions to ask the person sitting next to you on an airplane: Business or pleasure? Neither. Where are you going and why? I am going home to visit my mom before she forgets who I am. Eh. What a downer. I wouldn't want to talk to me. I wonder what my in-laws said when they were traveling to Chicago years ago to attend my daughter's funeral. "Our baby granddaughter died." It would have been the truth, tragic as it was. I could have lied, I suppose. After a long day of travel, I didn't feel like playing cheerful.
On the way back to Seattle, I sat next to an equally affable man. He was wearing a fancy watch and a shirt from a fancy golf tournament, clearly traveling for business. Instead of burying my nose in my book, I let him say hello. I don't remember what I said, but I remember his story. He was flying from Columbus to Minneapolis to Paris to St. Petersburg. He had 45 minutes to make his connection, and our plane was late. I was more worried about him making his flight than he was.
Maybe I am not a misanthrope after all.
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