Evening Flight from MSP to DCA – A reflection on talking to strangers
On a recent evening flight from Minneapolis back to Washington, DC, I did something out of character. I stayed silent as my row-mates folded into their middle and aisle seats, nor did I utter a word to them during the flight.
For someone like me who appreciates the opportunity to meet strangers, this was unusual, indeed. I don’t typically chat for very long with fellow passengers on flights—the sound of incessant airplane chatter is annoying. I converse just long enough to establish shared humanity, then I open up my laptop to work.
Years earlier, on this same MSP/DCA flight, I was tucked into a window seat, eagerly watching for the forward door to close, allowing me and the aisle guy to enjoy our empty middle seat. As the flight attendant headed to close the door, one last passenger boarded, breathless. Dashing down the aisle, he glanced at his ticket, then abruptly stopped at our row.
Once he settled in, I commented in commiseration about the dreaded airport dash. Before we had reached 10,000 feet, this slightly disheveled man and I discovered that his wife had grown up a block east and a year older than me in Rapid City, South Dakota.
But wait! It gets better. Middle Row Guy was headed to DC to attend the Kennedy Center Honors and would just months later receive the prestigious Man Booker Award for his book Lincoln in the Bardo. Middle Row Guy, now known to me as George Saunders, taught me to never make assumptions about anyone…and to kind of hope that someone does, indeed, fill that middle seat.
I think a lot about the strangers I have stayed in touch with, as well as the ones who, unfortunately, I have not. While I stayed in touch for a time with George, I sadly lost touch with a young man who I met on the very windy deck of a ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island when I was a resident artist at the Bloedel Reserve. The young man, who introduced himself to me as Caleb, and I were the only passengers undaunted by the wind, determined to snap photos of the beautiful sunset. One photo from that day ultimately became a piece of printed art early in the pandemic.
When I told Caleb that I was embarking on an art project to decrease the stigma of drug addiction, he gave me a purple crystal—his good luck charm—to thank me for my endeavor. He was an incredibly sensitive, kind soul. Since then, I have hoped that he has not needed his purple crystal. If you encounter Caleb out there somewhere, please tell him it worked, and with thanks, I would love to return it to him.
Back to that Minneapolis flight—as we were deplaning, I watched with sadness that no one helped a woman a row ahead of us retrieve her carry-on from the overhead bin. Sadly, those nearby simply watched her struggle. Once our row exited the plane, I realized that the woman with the heavy suitcase was traveling with my middle seat guy. I caught up to them and thanked her for her service to our nation. I had just met Senator Amy Klobachar.
“Why are you not running?” I asked her.
“The President is,” she replied resolutely.
She diplomatically pivoted to compliment my outfit -- a long, gray cotton chemise overlaid with a long-sleeve lace duster.
“I’m lucky,” I replied with a smile. “I’m an artist, I get to do what I want–and color outside the lines.”
And in that moment, I realized what a privilege it is to talk to strangers, to be an artist, and to connect with others in shared, multilayered understanding.
