I’m sitting across the aisle from the president of a reputable music program at a major university. We’ve met a few times, and such is the theater of air travel that we pretend not to recognize each and it’s totally fine.
I’ve just confirmed that I do, in fact, have a middle seat from LAX to Melbourne, in a row with a bassinet, which means 15 hours of potential close proximity baby crying and my channeling every ounce of musterable energy towards infinite patience. And, judging by the way he’s knocking back Jack and Diets, I’d wager a “how’s the weather” conversation with an acquaintance in a muppet t-shirt isn’t high on Señor Presidente’s list.
So, we sit, staring straight ahead in seasoned traveler bliss, I, with fashion sense severely limiting my number of potential romantic partners, and him, with inspiring, go get ‘em spirit, embracing the opportunity to drink like it’s the end of the world.
To my fellows travelers out there, be well, stay safe, and give your liver a break.