As children, we were always taught not to talk to strangers. Living in New York my whole life, this advice was probably warranted, and if I were a parent, I'd probably instruct my children the same way. But I'm 20 years old now, and I think I'm old enough to distinguish between those to whom I should and should not talk.
During the previous two weekends I have traveled, by airplane, to Florida and Wisconsin. The first trip was to visit my grandparents, the second to chaperone a trip for my high school debate team. Along the way, I have to come to the conclusion that airports and airplanes are the perfect place to talk to strangers.
My first encounter was with a middle-aged woman on the flight to West Palm Beach. My cousin (sitting between the woman and me) and I were speaking about our experiences in college, our drinking habits and our family in general, when the woman decided that she wanted to be part of our conversation. She was a bit odd-looking and called us Yankees, but was basically harmless. I was somewhat annoyed that she ended up dominating our conversation--especially because I hadn't seen my cousin in about eight months--but she was probably lonely, and hey, what are strangers for?
The following weekend, I was sitting at RDU's gate 11, waiting to board my delayed flight to Chicago (I had to transfer to get to Wisconsin), when the flight attendant called for the first-class passengers and anyone needing an extra minute. Suddenly a mad rush of about 40 people charged the gate. I turned to a woman sitting next to me and said, "I didn't know so many people needed that extra minute."
It was not an incredibly humorous statement, but still, the woman laughed. I enjoy making people laugh and felt good about doing so. We had a short conversation about our respective destinations--she was probably going to miss her connecting flight to Denver--and then boarded the plane (after those people who needed the extra minute).
On that same flight I sat next to a quiet, reserved man who also had problems with his connecting flight in Chicago. We really did not speak much, except for right after we both finished the snack United Airlines provided for us. "Pretty good lunch," he said to me.
"Yep," I replied. And it's funny--I was actually thinking that it was a good snack (it was 6 p.m., hardly lunch-time). In fact, I was planning to tell my mother about the snack because she loves to hear little details about airplane food. There was a little sandwich, some cheese and crackers, an apple and a Snickers bar. In my mind, it was a perfect snack-- as far as airplane snacks go.
My neighbor and I also spoke about our respective destinations and the odds of him making his connecting flight to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. After I wished him luck, we went our separate ways in Chicago's O'Hare; he did make his flight (his gate was next to mine).
How come most people in similar situations do not make conversation with their neighbors? I observed this phenomenon on my flights, during my lay-overs, and the fact is that people still do not talk to strangers. Even if these strangers only entered my world for a few fleeting moments, they made a tiny difference in my life. Hopefully, I did the same.
On my flight returning from Florida, I talked to one of the kindest couples I've ever met. When the woman sat down next to me she said, "We sat next to each other in the terminal; now we're sitting next to each other on the plane. Small world."
Instead of reading the book I was supposed to have finished for my English class, we ended up talking almost the entire flight (her husband, who was getting coffee at the time, eventually joined us as well).
Among other topics, we talked about Duke summer school, their recent trip to New Orleans, and that inevitable topic--the weather. When the flight ended, they offered me a ride back to Central Campus. My roommate was coming to pick me up so it was unnecessary, but to me, the gesture was unforgettable.
During our conversation, it came out that I worked for The Chronicle, and being from Durham, they told me they would look for my name. Unfortunately, I never got their names, but I really hope they find mine, right here on this column. It would mean a lot to me . . . even if they were just strangers.
Russ Freyman is a Trinity junior and managing editor of The Chronicle.
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