Flying Flock Style

The flight from Chicago to Paris was long – over 8 hours. Fortunately for me, my seatmate – a Lebanese woman in her 60s – took it upon herself to befriend me. Perhaps it was the fact that I was traveling alone, or the fact the we were both women… more likely, however, it was the fact that I happened to be assigned the seat next to her, and I was stuck there for the whole night.

She was already seated when I boarded the plane. I learned, later, that she requested special assistance at each end, and took her seat separately and in advance of the general boarders. This did not surprise me.

As I took my seat next to her, I could feel her inquisitive gaze upon me. I ignored her, as I was busying myself with my bag and jacket, and then fastening my seat belt. Settled in, I began observing the other passengers as they arranged themselves into their assigned spaces. My seatmate observed them as well, but not nearly so silently. Not – in fact – silently at all.

“Ah!!” I heard her exclaim as a couple claimed the central strip of seats ahead of us. “A baby!” They placed a baby seat between them. My new companion turned to me. “Is a long flight for a baby.”

“Yes.” I concurred.

She turned back to the other passengers. “Why,” she began in a disgusted tone, “so much luggage? Why you need so much luggage? What you have in there?” The question was apparently directed at a man five rows ahead of us, but he obviously did not hear. She turned to me. “Why everyone need so many bags?”

I admitted that I did not know. In truth, I had thought this myself – many times – as I observed passengers trying to outmaneuver the carry-on regulations by packing all of their belongings in the most massive “allowable” bags possible.

The woman shook her head sadly, but perked up when she spotted the next passenger boarding the plane. He was rail thin. Really. His waist could not have been any more than 24 inches around. He accentuated his slim build with a pair of the smallest and tightest skinny leg jeans that I have ever seen. These were topped with a tight t-shirt and blue and gray striped cardigan. His skin was deathly white (I think make-up may have been involved) and his hair – which was at least 6 inches long – protruded from his head in many artfully constructed layers and angles. He was a vision to behold, and I could feel the Lebanese woman practically vibrate with excitement.

“Is a man.” She hissed.

I looked at her, trying to determine whether or not she really believed that I might not have realized that, and she nodded wisely at me. “Him.” She gestured with her shoulder. “Is a MAN.”

I looked back at the Depp-esque character. He was seated, clutching his carry-on coffee. My neighbor, however, was not done. Her son, she informed me, was FRIENDS with “some of them.” She launched into a long and colorful story about the previous Saturday, on which she had accompanied her son to the local Wal Mart. There she had spotted a statuesque black beauty, resplendent in dress, heels, and loads of gold jewelry. She described this – and the person’s massive physique – with many hand gestures. Then – she informed me – her son had revealed that THIS PERSON WAS A MAN. She looked at me, eyes wide.

“Americans!” She exclaimed. “Strange.”

I did not hold this against her, as she had made it clear that overall she was fond of Americans. She did – in fact – spend two to four months a year in the states. Her son had moved to Louisiana, married, and had children. He was now divorced, but stayed put for his kids. This topic got more interesting as the evening progressed.

There were lulls in our conversation, during which I noticed the frequency with which she fingered what appeared to be a rosary in her hands increased. This was particularly noticeable during takeoff, as she also became silent. As the evening progressed, I could tell that she was developing a fondness for me. This seemed to increase her involvement in my life. She began to ask me a number of what might – to some – be considered personal questions.

When she asked who I was going to Paris with, I told her I was going alone. She stared at me for a long moment. “And that,” she pronounced, “Is crazy too.”
I was momentarily taken aback, but primarily because I appeared to have missed the first part of what was crazy. What was this “too” business? I didn’t have a chance to consider it for long, because she had developed a burning worry.

“You have muzzer?” She leaned toward me, her face nearly in mine, and clutched my arm.

Yes, I assured her, I have a mother. She sighed in relief and her body relaxed a bit. “You live with her?” she asked in a slightly more cheerful tone.

No, I told her, I did not live with her. I could see her begin to tense up again. “You live with family?” She asked.

No, I was forced to admit, I lived alone. She looked quite concerned and wanted to know how far from my family I lived. I told her two hours, and she shouted in despair.

“Ahhh!” She exclaimed. “Is FAR.”

I felt very glad that my mother was not there at that moment. I could not even begin to imagine what a force the two of them could be together. My seatmate then began a detailed description of her living conditions in Lebanon. The key point – stressed over and over – was that NONE of her family members (including her sisters and daughter) lived more than 10 minutes away from her.

Fortunately for me, there were natural conversation-breakers periodically throughout the night. Beverages were served, food was served, announcements were made, movies were shown. It was all commented upon. “Ah!!” She would practically shout, every time an announcement was made by the pilot, “We heard you!” She was especially put out by the fact that he would make his statement in English, but then repeat it in French. As he talked, she would open and close her mouth in an apparent imitation of what he might look like. I sincerely hoped, for his sake, that she was not skilled in the art of imitation.

There were regular flare-ups of worry on my behalf. When I revealed – after quite a lot of questioning – that I had been married in the past, she began a rant against the Mexican men that “married poor American girls” for their green cards. I should not worry though, she assured me, someday I would meet someone who would be good to me and I would fall in love. I thanked her and tried to look as if she had lifted a weight from my shoulders. I thought that she would appreciate that sort of effect.

As the night grew later and later, I would occasionally doze off. I had entered just such a dreamy state when I felt a violent jab in my right side. My companion had elbowed me to alert me to the fact that the thin spindly fellow had lifted out of his seat to use the restroom. “Did you SEE?” She hissed as he walked by. I had not only seen, I had felt. My rib was throbbing a bit. My seatmate, meanwhile, was shaking her head again, nearly overwhelmed by the state of the world.

[Part 1 of 2 – to be continued.]