Sylvia's Journal

When you travel you discover the universe of people; its variety in size, intelligence, skin color, dress, and of course level of attractiveness. One thing that makes flying less tedious is that there is so much to see and guess about. I am curious about the people whose lives temporarily intersect with mine.

Here are some of my co-travelers on the Sunday evening flight to Amsterdam. There is the young Indian family with three small children, one boy and twin girls, pint-sized copies of their mom, even their clothes are similar. They wriggle like little fish when not asleep and talk with high-pitched voices, asking questions that no one answers. I am sure they are going to see the extended Indian family, grandma, grandpa and all the aunties and uncles and cousins. If this is the first time, they will be in for a shock, if the description of a such a reunion in the book ‘The Namesake’ has any grounding in real life. Because of the book I can imagine the reunion. The little boy exclaims, in perfect American English, pointing at the impressive cloud formations below us, “Dad is that Europe?” His eyes are the size of ping pong balls and everything is new and important to him.

In front of me, across the aisle, sits a young (also Indian) fellow who is studying for an exam. One chapter is about Integer Programming – it looks complicated and tedious; there are lots of tables and graphs for him to remember. Next to me, on the other side of the seat that was left empty, sits a young teenager. He is probably about 18 and is dressed the part: hair dyed black with a few orange streaks, stuck together with some substance to make it stay up in a loose version of a mohawk cut; his pants barely held up by thin hips below a too fat belly. His arms are tattooed with text and pictures. When he leans too far over to my side I can smell the sigaret smoke in his hair. But his face is that of a big little boy and when we land he clutches a large teddy bear that wears a T-shirt with a Happy Hanukah greeting.

A few rows in front of me sits a short and heavy African American woman of a certain age. She has to be told which of the three seats is the window seat. Like the little Indian boy everything is new. She has no idea about the rule ‘ stay seated when taxiing.’ Her suitcase is of the size that ought to have been checked. Two flight attendants squished it into the overhead bin. I wonder about her story and what gets her to travel by plane so late in life and on such a long trip. Even after we land she is not sure what happens next. She is told to wait for the wheelchair and then sinks back into her chair. Her seat row mates are an elderly Indian couple, she with a cervical collar on, he tiny and bespectacled. I admire the flight attendants with their infinite patience. I wonder whether they are patient at home.

Across the aisle from me three enormous men are folded like pretzels in their exit row seats. I am glad I am not big. The only thing to their advantage is the way the seat is shaped around their backs and neck – good for them, not for me, I am too short for the curves to fit. And so we are all having trouble sleeping in these chairs.

And finally, in back of me is my colleague Jean who is on his way to the Comoro Islands. His ticket presented a challenge for the Northwest lady who had a hard time figuring out where to ship his luggage to – she’d never heard of the place. Jean will be working with Oumar who is flying into Amsterdam later today from Conakry. I will be gone by then and so we will miss an impromptu and unexpected reunion in Amsterdam.