Four years and 30 flights ago, I boarded my first plane to Madison. A teary-eyed freshman from New York on the verge of crapping in my pants, I was particularly unprepared to navigate a vast college campus in a Midwest town and to immerse myself in some ""serious"" academia.
Fast-forward to senior year, and I'm on a plane en route to Madison once again. But unlike all the other flights, this will be my last. With graduation in May, the only trip I'll be taking is back home. No longer will I be ""Wisc""ed away to campus after a fun-filled, food-filled break at home. Anticipation (or dread) of the coming semester, the weeks off from school, the layovers in Chicago—those thoughts and occurrences will all end with my final flight back home.
But besides the guilt-free trips home, where ""doing nothing"" is the societally accepted status quo, what I'll miss most are the insane and comically mundane circumstances and people I have met in these past four years while on these frequent flights.
Airports are like mini-ecosystems: Each has its own changing population, schedule and restaurant chains. Like birth and death, people leave and people come, each with their own routine, purpose and destination.
But the people you meet in airports—on the layover, in line for a bagel, your neighbor in seat 12A—these are what keep the journey colorful from here to there. Whether my flight is a half hour or two and a half, these characters provide more entertainment than four episodes of ""Friends"" and two hours on Facebook—combined!
Freshman year, on a flight to Chicago after spring break, I found myself ensconced between a window and an Indian man named Samir. Samir was young and on one of many business trips to the ""Windy City"" and liked board games. After 12 minutes on that flight and the usual brain-reducing small talk, Samir was smitten.
Somewhere above northern Illinois, Samir asked me the fateful question: ""Do you have a boyfriend?""
(SOUND OF CAR SCREECHING TO A HALT)
What the hell was I to do? I was cruising at an altitude of 32,000 feet and my only escape was a 4x4 bathroom with an unflushable toilet!
So what did I do? I told the truth.
Why? 'Cause I was an idiot.
And a freshman.
""No.""
Thenceforth, he proceeded to tell me about his family, his culture, his predilection for warm climates and basketball. After the two-hour flight (and time-wasting conversation), he asked me for my number.
So what did I do? I gave it to him.
Why? 'CAUSE I'M AN IDIOT. A TOTAL IDIOT. WHAT THE HELL, WHERE WAS MY BRAIN?
For nearly two weeks after that encounter, he called me almost nightly. The conversation wasn't bad; the distance mitigated my suspicions, and frankly, I had no friends, so any communication was welcomed. However, when he attempted to invite himself to a dance I was going to and wanted to stay over, that's when I said, ""No thanks, Samir. Maybe I'll see you on the layover!""
Then there was the winter of 2008, sophomore year. It was an unusually bitter-cold winter, sprinkled with the occasional hail and weeks of below-30-degree temperatures. The night before I departed for home after the first semester, Mother Nature conveniently took a great white dump all over Madison. As I trudged through the snow with my large luggage in tow, I was painfully unaware that I had another 14 hours till I'd be home.
Quite quickly, my world became the area between my seat at the airport gate and every food chain within a 20-foot radius that sold bread, meat, sugar, salt and cookie dough ice cream.
I became a chain connoisseur: I devoured/sampled the sophisticated offerings at Cinnabon, Garrett's Popcorn, The Great American Bagel and Panda Express. For the exhausting trip from the women's bathroom by gate C4 to the TCBY by C10, I fueled myself with a grande café latte. Too much time to wait? Learn to satiate!
But some of my most memorable trips are the ones where I fear I'm not going to make it: when I'm dashing to the gate, or when the flight becomes as turbulent and rocky as a 10-day family vacation. Numerous times, I've sat in my seat with my tray table down, strapped in my useless seatbelt, and I've asked myself, ""Is this is it? Is this really the end?""
And when you're suspended in midair, thousands of feet above the ground, without a semblance of control, I've realized that you just have to sit back and find solace in the fact that there is nothing you can do. Your fate is not in your hands. You just have to go along for the journey and hope beyond hope you get to your destination.
With graduation nearly a month away, I ask myself the same question: ""Is this is it? Is this really the end?""
Yes, it is. But what a ride it's been!
Do you have any midflight stories you'd like to share? Thinking about the future? Fill me in at gleicher@wisc.edu.
