Ellen

Kevin and I left the house at the same time, he for his office and I for the Tucson airport and the Southwest Airlines terminal. The dogs had no time to figure out what was going on; I could very well have left for a day of teaching.

This was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel anxious about leaving on a trip. I had slept well the night before and got up promptly at 4:45am to shower and drink some coffee. I didn't even grow tired on the highway.

Nor did I have the urge to pee before getting to the airport after two large cups of sweet coffee.

I made it to the airport at 7:20am. I walked through security with two small carry-ons. In my haste this morning to leave early enough I had completely forgotten about the TSA rules of no liquids, gels or paste larger than 3.4 ounces in carry-on luggage.

I had packed a wine bottle, some mouth wash and my large toothpaste tube in my carry-on. All three were contrabands. Shit. The federal rules were even displayed at the front of the check-in counter. I had failed to read and heed.

The TSA agent made me go back and declare my second carry-on. In her defense she treated me professionally; in Philadelphia I would have been body-slammed against the wall for all to see and finger-searched by a 300-pound pageant drop-out. It was my experiences at the Philadelphia airport after 911 that completely turned me off to flying.

The Southwest agent made me purchase bubble-wrap for the wine for $5. “This way we won’t need to clean up a mess should that bottle break and get over other peoples’ luggage” said the young man.

“So you mean you can’t guarantee me that this wine bottle won’t break?”
“No.”
“Will I get reimbursed if it breaks?”
“No.”

With my wine, toothpaste and mouthwash now safely in my checked luggage and any doubts that I may be a potential terrorist plotting a bomb attack using wine, toothpaste and mouth wash as the active ingredients, I entered the secure zone. With 30 minutes before boarding I managed to log-online from the free WiFi hotspot and read email before boarding.

Shortly after 9am we were in the air, and not a second past wheel lift did my seatmate to my left, Ellen, start a conversation with me. When people start a conversation with me as soon as I sit down, I get suspicious.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

I showed her the book I chose as reading material for this short trip: “The Multi-Cultural Southwest” a reader compiled by four editors. This book is required for my Humanities course “Cultural Heritage of the Southwest”

One question led to the next and within an hour I knew all of Ellen’s life’s highs and lows. In her 70s and sporting a short blondish-grey page-boy, she travels between Tucson and Chicago every summer. She and her husband have a lakefront home in Chicago. This past summer she’s flown to Chicago three times already for two-week stays. I could tell Ellen was a woman of wealth and prestige. She was no crumbling cookie.

“I absolutely love Chicago!” she admitted. But this time she was flying to Chicago to visit her ailing 98-year-old father who just this past weekend was given days to live until he awoke from his coma yesterday.

“He just woke up this past weekend and started bossing everyone around him. He’s ready to sue the entire hospital.! It was better off when he wasn’t aware of his surroundings!“

While Ellen talked I’d glance out the window to the clear landscape below. Within an hour we were already flying over Albuquerque and the greening hills, a distance that would take me most of a day by car. Weather was clear for most of the flight.

But the real issue, I quickly learned, was that Ellen’s dad had been bossy and cantankerous for the past ten years, after his wife died and he felt his independence slip away. Her younger sister died when she was still young so Ellen de facto is an only child to an aging widowed parent.

“When people get old, they turn on their own children!” Ellen confessed . To Ellen “old” meant someone in their 90s. To my daughter “old” is someone my age.

“I have lawyer friends who say old people come into their offices all the time wanting to take their kids out of their will!” she went on, “and they have to counsel these people that that is not always the best thing to do.”

The conversation took so many twists, all which I let happen. Ellen clearly was guiding the topics, from her dislike for Hillary and Bill Clinton to Barack Obama. “I do not agree with their policies but they are all very smart people”

Topics like illegal immigration, mounting tension between Israel and Iran, health care reform all flowed from her lips in rapid-fire succession.

She was animated when she spoke, gesturing with her eyes and hands to emphasize importance to her message. She didn’t come across as a woman who sits still for long or who stays quiet for long. For an older woman she undoubtedly makes many younger women breathless with her energy.

So it was no surprise that I learned that Ellen takes Humanities courses through the University of Arizona’s non-credit courses. She’s taken courses on Spanish Film, Venetian art, etc. “I have friends who come to Tucson every year just to attend the Humanities programs at UA!”

She was a life-long student of life, just like me. I had found a likeness of me. But because of Ellen’s high-speed dialogue I mostly listened and sat back, watching the topics unfold. After learning about her father’s ailing health and the poor health of her own husband, I knew that my presence and our similarities was a means for Ellen to unload; the stress of traveling between Tucson and Chicago these last few months have taken their toll on Ellen’s emotional health.

The screaming baby behind us didn’t help matters. The little girl, 8-month-old Emily, screamed, pushed her legs against our seat backs, cried, fussed and made her mother uncomfortable.

“Can’t you get up and walk her for half an hour!” Ellen asked the woman behind us. Oh my god, I thought, I am witnessing a fight between two frustrated strangers and I am in the middle. I wanted to best slide down my seat and hide.

“Why don’t you just find another seat?” said the disgusted father. That would have been impossible in the crowded plane. We had no place to go. Even a flight attendant asked the parents if they could give the screaming baby a bottle

“Give her a bottle so she has something to suck on!“ Ellen fired back.

The tension started getting to me. “The little baby can’t help it, the pressure is hurting her!” I said. Another baby in the front of the plane was also crying. My ears were hurting from the pressure, too.

When Emily finally quieted down, both Ellen and I were engrossed in our own books. When we landed at 2pm local time we quickly wished each other a good trip and much luck for each other’s families. I was relieved that the situation between Ellen and Emily didn’t escalate to more than a few heated remarks. I sympathized with everyone: for the child in pain, the frustrated parents, and the elderly woman next to me who wanted her peace.

I like Chicago-Midway. The last time I flew into Midway was during my Iraq leave in June 2007. This time I wasn’t walking the aisles in a desert camouflage uniform. I didn’t have much free time before my second flight leg departing at 3:05pm. That was just enough time to grab a Chicago hotdog at Superdawgs. I ordered the works without the hot peppers and got a small dog in a soggy bun with green tomatoes, diced onions, mustard and runny orange cheese. The fries were heavily dusted with celery salt. Was this supposed to be a Chicago-style hotdog? I didn’t care, I was hungry.

The B terminal was hot and crowded. Why did I expect traveling midweek would evade the crowd? My only consolation was that I didn’t have to wait very long to board my next flight. I hadn’t even started eating my dog when I was already in my new seat, this time against the window in the far rear of the plane. A man dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, black pants and socks and shoes, sat in the aisle seat near me and opened up a book bearing Dutch words; something about soccer. His stance told me he was here to read, to be left alone and to hurry on to his destination. I knew then that this second leg of my flight would be a quiet one.