A Tale of Two Seatmates

*IT WAS the best of flights, it was the worst of flights, it was the age of reason, it was the age of insanity, it was the epoch of Atlas, it was the epoch of Alice. There were gifts received (one rather reluctantly) and I share the tale of both flights and their associated seatmates so that you may compare.


Standing by gate A2 at the El Paso International Airport, I was looking forward to the journey home. It had been a good trip and the four-day weekend was just ahead.

I noticed him immediately.

You don’t see many people walking through airports in their socks. Sure, there are lots of visible socks and bare feet in the TSA security areas but folks normally return their shoes to their feet before entering the concourse. Not this guy. Clad in knee-high, white, athletic socks, shorts and a striped t-shirt, he had both arms wrapped around a large overstuffed bag while one hand gripped his sneakers. He had a conservatively short haircut and a scraggly beard. He appeared to be in his late 40s or early 50s. His escort was a TSA agent.

“Can I get on the airplane now?” he asked.

“You can when they call your group number,” the TSA agent replied.

A few minutes passed while everyone in the boarding area waited to hear his or her group number. The gate agent announced first class and priority boarding.

“How about now? Can I get on now?”

“Sir, I’ll let you know when you can board.”

I was in group two so I made my way down the aisle, breathing a sigh of relief when I realized I was a good ten rows behind the baby who would soon be loudly and painfully confused about air pressure and earaches.

I tucked my laptop into the overhead bin, my purse under the seat, and my water bottle into the seat pocket in front of me. My iPod was in reach, my phones turned off and my book resting on my lap. I glanced up the aisle to see how boarding was going.

There he was - shoes in hand, feet in socks, overstuffed bag in arms. He was looking at the seat markers and mumbling loudly to himself.

“25A, 25A, 25A.”

I glanced in horror at the seat beside me. It was 25A.

“If you’re naturally kind, you attract a lot of people you don’t like.” William Feather

I immediately felt guilty. I didn’t know this man. I didn’t know if he was mentally disabled, crazy, drunk or a combination of all three. I decided not to pre-judge. I think we (the general public) try to pretend crazy, disabled, drunk people don’t exist. I try to be kind. I was not going to ignore this man. I would be polite. I would be kind.

I stood up to allow him access to his seat. The overstuffed bag would not fit under the seat and there was no more room in the overhead compartments but the flight attendants let him leave it partially wedged. They seemed unwilling to risk upsetting him.

Since he didn’t seem to know he should, I told him he’d need to put on his seatbelt. When he seemed confused, I handed him the piece between us and told him the other half was probably under the armrest. He dug around a bit, found the other section but then appeared to be confused about how to put them together. I helped.

He told me I was a nice lady.

I said, “My name is Ima.”

He said, “My name is Kit.”

“Oh,” I said, “like Kit Carson!”

“No. I’m from Kentucky.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kit from Kentucky.”

We chatted the fellow-passenger chat of where-are-you-traveling-to-today-and-is-this-home. Kit from Kentucky said he used to be in the Army, lived in El Paso, had lived overseas for a time, and was now on his way to visit family in Jacksonville, FL. I shared that I had been in El Paso for work and was flying to Huntsville, AL (“No, Kit from Kentucky, not Huntsville, TX, not the prison.”).

He told me again that I was a nice lady and said he had a gift for me. I assured him that I did not need a gift. He continued to dig around in his bag and pulled out my gift. At the sight of the gift, I even more strongly, yet politely, assured him, “no, no, I’m good, thanks!” He insisted.

Not sure yet if he was crazy, drunk, disabled, or the combo and because I didn’t know what else he had in that bag and didn’t want to upset him, I thanked him and put the gift in my purse.

The gift? You want to know what the gift was? Really, now, does the actual gift matter? Isn’t it the thought that counts?

Oh, all right.

THE GIFT:

According to one of my colleagues, who was also traveling back that afternoon and heard this story in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, there’s a little-known fact about this sequence of events. Because I assisted Kit from Kentucky with his seatbelt and then accepted his gift of sardines (in Spring Water!), we are now betrothed.

Kit from Kentucky told me that the security guards had taken his whiskey. He’d had it tucked into his waistband. I think he said it was Old Crow. At this point, I decided to keep drunk on the list of possibilities. Based on the other bits of conversation, crazy and disabled were still on the table.

He asked if he could buy me a beer. I declined. He asked again. I said no.

Thankfully, the captain authorized the use of approved electronic devices so I put in my ear buds, powered up the iPod, and opened my book.

From time to time, Kit from Kentucky would lean over, touch the page of my book, and say something. Even though I could hear him, I made a point of pressing pause on the iPod and taking out my ear buds each time.

He asked me if I was married. Reconsidering the value of truth but unwilling to abandon it, I told him I was not. He proceeded to ask if he could have my address and phone number. I said no and he asked why not. I didn’t explain but just said no again. Firmly.

I got back to my book and music and several minutes passed. I drank some of my water. Kit from Kentucky asked me if I was a catfish.

“No. No, I’m not a catfish.”

I continued reading and listening to music. Then, Kit from Kentucky told me that I was pretty and smart. I thanked him.

Kit from Kentucky seemed content, for the most part, to look out the window at the clouds and patches of visible ground. The interruptions were, thankfully, not excessive. However, the last interruption was a doozy.

Kit from Kentucky made a comment that I heard perfectly well, even with the iPod playing. I ignored him. He said it again, louder this time. Realizing that if I continued to ignore him, he would get to the point where he was yelling, I decided to acknowledge the fact that he had just said, twice, “I’d be fine if I could just get this tampon out of my ass.”

I slowly closed my book, paused the music, removed the ear buds, channeled a dear friend who would never be questioned about her catfish status, turned to my left and gave him my best “oh, no, you didn’t” one-raised-eyebrow stare.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

“Aw, nuthin’. I was just funnin’.”

Kit from Kentucky seemed to realize that I was not interested in more conversation with him and, fortunately, we had begun our descent into Dallas.

Crazy? Check.

Drunk? Probably.

Disabled? Still not sure.

I got away from the arrival gate as quickly as possible, determined the departure gate for the Jacksonville flight so I could avoid it, and found my fellow business travelers. I shared with them the story of Kit from Kentucky. I’m mostly- partially- almost not at all certain that they were laughing with me, not at me. When I slipped outside to have a cigarette, they insisted that I leave the sardines (in Spring Water!) with them. We were not about to risk having such a lovely gift confiscated by the TSA.

For the second leg of my flight home, I had an upgrade to first class. So nice. My seatmate was wearing shoes and proper trousers. He was reading, then napping. Before we took off, I had to call my mom and tell her about the long, strange trip it’d been. Very quietly (at least that’s what I thought), I whispered the whole shoeless-catfish-sardine-inappropriate-comment experience to her. Then, I settled into my comfy, roomy seat with my complimentary gin and tonic. For the first hour of the flight, I enjoyed uninterrupted music and reading. At the end of that hour, my seatmate sat up, opened his eyes, and turned to toward me.

“So, tell me about Kit from Kentucky and the sardines.”

I did. We laughed. His name was John. It turns out that we have mutual friends and business acquaintances.

John also insisted on presenting me with a gift.



Did you know that banded penguins eat sardines?

Perfect.

~~~~~~~~~
The colleague who clued me in about my unintended betrothal knew that I was going to write about this and suggested a few alternate titles.

TITLE : SUBTITLE

"Don't accept Sardines from a shoeless Kentuckian: Betrothed on a flight from El Paso to Dallas"

"A New Wife in Kentucky: How Sardines and a Flight from El Paso to Dallas changed my Life"

"Single in El Paso and Betrothed before landing in Dallas: How a chance seatmate turned into my lifemate"

"I Don't Like Sardines Anymore: A Tale of A Betrothed Kentuckian's Wife"

"Stay out of my Feminine Hygiene Products!: A Betrothed Kentuckian Wife Speaks Out"

"Does Anyone Know How You Annul a Sardine Betrothment?: One Woman's Fight To Be Free”
~~~~~~~~~

*I’ve borrowed shamelessly from Dickens’ first lines in A Tale of Two Cities because the title inspired mine and the first lines provided the perfect template for depicting the differences in the two legs of my journey last week. Confession: I have never read A Tale of Two Cities. (the.shame!) Although I’m a voracious reader and even though it was required for one of my high school classes many years ago, I just couldn’t get into this book.

~~~~~~~~~

The Trail of Tears

This past weekend was the Trail of Tears remembrance ride. MrWurdi and I were on one of an estimated 150,000 motorcycles that made the approximately 200 mile trip from Chattanooga, TN to Florence, AL. The line of motorcycles stretched for about 50 miles.



From the Official Trail of Tears Motorcycle Ride Website:

The Annual Trail of Tears Motorcycle Ride was started in 1994 by Bill Cason to mark one of the trails used during the 1838 removal of Native Americans from their homelands in the Southeast to Oklahoma. The ride started at Ross’s Landing in Chattanooga, TN with eight riders and ended with 100 riders in Waterloo, AL. The ride has now grown to over 150,000 riders, making it the largest organized motorcycle ride in the world.

I know I don’t have the words to adequately express how amazing it was to be a part of this. People lined the streets in the towns we traveled through and people who live along the route sat or stood in their front yards to wave at and cheer the passing line of motorcycles. Other motorcyclists waited for their chance to join the line.


As we crossed bridges, we saw people who’d come out on their boats to watch the procession.




American flags were seen in abundance as well as many tribal flags from the various Indian nations represented. The flags flew from overpasses, motorcycles, and vehicles parked alongside Highway 72.


The main ride stopped in Madison, AL for lunch while our group broke off to stop at a friend’s co-workers house. They hold a cookout each year in their front yard located on the Trail of Tears Corridor. From the side of the road, we were able to see the front of the ride – something we couldn’t see from our initial position, some ten miles back in the line.

When we arrived at McFarland Park in Florence, AL, MrWurdi described it as “the Woodstock of chrome and leather.”


At the park, a pow wow was held that included an opening ceremony, war dances, and an honoring of warriors – including U.S. veterans from various wars.


One of the tribal leaders made an announcement prior to the honoring ceremonies. He asked everyone to stand in honor of the warriors and to refrain from taking photos during that time. Later, when permission for photography was given, I was able to get a few pictures of the war dances. The drumming, singing and dancing gave a glimpse of what it must have been like so many years ago.

Although most of what happened was wonderful, I did get angry at one point. Not only did one woman completely disregard the request for no photos, she actually called out to one of the participants, asking him to pose. Disgraceful. The couple in front of us were sitting, eating their funnel cakes, and chatting. Damn it. These men and women risked their lives for their country and you can’t stop running and filling your mouths for 10 minutes to show them a little respect? A loud throat clearing on my part stopped the chitter-chatter but their lack of respect for the warriors infuriated me.

The weekend was unforgettable. Next year, I hope that MrWurdi and I are able to not only participate as much as we did this year but to continue on to Oklahoma for the rest of the ride.

Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjo Music!*

UPDATED!!
MrWurdi and I spent Memorial Day weekend in the mountains of northern Georgia with some friends. We stayed at a fantastic cabin named Wild Blue Yonder and I want to go back and live there. Despite a forest fire that made the view a little hazy, the scenery was gorgeous! A bike ride to Helen, GA provided some wonderful opportunities for oohing and ahhing at the sites as well as a bit of photography. I'll be updating this post later with some photos from the trip and a few more details about them.

At I Paid For That, I'll be posting about our service experiences on our mini-vacation. Who would have thought you'd find gourmet foods and nice wines in the heart of redneck country? Not me. I was pleasantly surprised.

More later!

*The title of this post comes from a t-shirt I saw that made me laugh so hard I nearly wet myself.

The Meals
As I mentioned in I Paid For That, I did all the cooking for our weekend in the mountains. For the folks who'd be arriving after 5 hours on their bikes, I put out a variety of store bought snacks from the amazingly well-stocked local grocery store and gourmet meat shop but did make one snack myself. It was a complete experiment but it ended up being pretty damned tasty. I took mini pitas, split them in half and put a mixture of blue cheese, chopped dates, and prosciutto on them, then tossed them in a 350 degree oven for about 15 minutes. The Windmill Old Vine Zinfandelwas great with this. Just to recognize the wine, here's a picture of a windmill we saw on our bike ride to Helen, GA.




It turned out that one of the folks didn't care for blue cheese so I ended up doing a quick revision to the dinner plan. Since I had two pork loins, I stuffed one with blue cheese and chopped dates; the other, I seasoned with rosemary and garlic. I also made garlic and rosemary red potatoes, broccoli, asparagus and baked artichoke hearts with parmesan cheese. Crusty bread with herbed olive oil and a baby greens salad with blue cheese (for those who wanted it), toasted pine nuts, and a red wine viniagrette were served with the meal. The wine was Yalumba Shiraz Viognier. Nice. For dessert, I'd made two cobblers: blackberry and cherry/apple. These cobblers are remarkably easy to make and not high in points for those doing Weight Watchers. I'll post the recipes later.

I wanted breakfast to be easy so I decided to do two "make the night before" kinds of breakfast bakes. The savory one was a combination of turkey sausage, egg, and cheese. The sweet one was a baked french toast. The fruit had already been cut up so it was super easy to just get up the next morning, turn on the oven, make coffee and chill on the deck and enjoy the view.



Lunch was in Helen, GA at the Old Bavaria and I blogged about that at I Paid For That.

We went back to the gourmet meat shop for steaks to grill for dinner. I seasoned them and the guys did the grilling. Everyone loved the salad and potatoes from the night before so we had more of those and more crusty bread to finish out the meal. Dessert was this absolutely drool-worthy cheesy-pastry kind of dealio that one of the other gals made. It was my one request for someone else cooking something that weekend.

The Views
I'm a huge fan of the beach. I love the sand and the water and the carefree beach spirit. I've discovered that the mountains have a different spirit and it's one that encourages me to explore my own. I'm sure there'll be more on that later. One thing I noticed is that I wanted to capture the beauty of everything around me. I took a few pictures and want to share them.

The mountains were so flippin' beautiful. Unfortunately, there was a forest fire that afternoon and by afternoon, the view was kind of hazy.










Here's a little pond we saw as we blazed down the rural highway.







These flowers were blooming on the side of the mountain. I have no idea what they are. If you know, leave me a comment and tell me. Please?













At the base of the mountain where our cabin was, there was this lovely little pond with a mini waterfall and some gorgeous flowers.
















CACTUS FLOWERS




I have hostas in my front yard. Until this trip, I never realized how pretty the flowers were.

Random Thought #2: Travel Notes

I'm on the road (or in the air) again. I've mentioned my affection for airport bars. That remains true. Tonight's blog is just a few random thoughts from my travels today.

* There's a spit of land on approach to the Detroit airport that looks just like a sperm.

* I love the Sky Box at the Detroit airport.

* Always get a sleeve for your hot Starbucks beverage.

* Religious dicussions in airport bars CAN be good.

* On the people movers - left is walk, right is stand.

* Some airport employees are not AT ALL familiar with their airport.

* You can do good deeds anywhere you go.

* It blows people's minds when you switch from reading Nietzsche to reading Harold Robbins.

* Not all babies will scream through the flight.

* Sometimes, the people sitting next to you will smell like pee.

Random Thought #1: Anonymity in an Airport Bar

I have a fondness for airport bars. Somehow, they don’t have that air of desperation wafting through them like happy hour places. The patrons in airports are exciting; they’re going somewhere. They are merely killing time between one exciting flight and another and they all have an interesting story.

I’m different, too. When I’m in the airport bar, I don’t have laundry on the floor in stacks of whites, darks, and hand-washables. I don’t have a front flowerbed in dire need of weeding. No one knows that my fish tank looks like it’s filled with anti-freeze or that there’s something scary growing in that plastic container on the back of the third shelf in my refrigerator. The bartender has no idea that I have Eurekaphobia (fear of vacuums).

Yeah, it’s a nice little fantasy. I can’t wait for my next trip.