Checking in at the airport is like opening that present from your grandma on Christmas—you’re never quite sure whether you’ll be pleasantly surprised, or just...surprised. —Nicola C. Perlman ’09 is an associate magazine editor and history of art and architecture concentrator in Eliot House. On almost all of her water polo trips, she has been stuck in the middle seat.
Such was the case when I was checking in at the JetBlue counter on the last day of spring break, to return to the still-icy Northeast from a water polo training-trip in sunny California. Because my coach had reserved the tickets, I had no idea where I’d be sitting, so all I could do was hand over my ID and hope for the best. Lo and behold, the best was not what I received, and as I glanced down at the ticket shoved to me across the sticky counter by the JetBlue attendant, I saw a number and letter that implied discomfort for the next six hours: 24E.
As I stood in line at the security check point, dutifully stripping myself of belt and shoes and responsibly removing my laptop from its case, I resigned myself to my fate. A hidden metal button on the hip of my jeans caused the security guards to charge me down with batons in hand, while simultaneously the miniscule tube of chapstick from the very bottom of my rather large backpack got confiscated for being a potential bomb. I decided that the day had already gone so wrong that it couldn’t possibly get any worse. The flight would be fine, I’d get some school work done, and maybe I would even get to sit next to some attractive, post-Cabo, sun-kissed student, returning to Boston rested and ready to begin the last few weeks of school.
While the rest of my team settled themselves in the front of the plane (somehow I had been the only one banished to the nether regions), I made my way down the aisle. As I neared the rear of the aircraft, it distinctly seemed like the number of “undesirable” passengers (think: old men who fart, women with dogs, etc.) was increasing exponentially. Then in the very back, I saw what frightened me beyond comprehension: a (very) young dad with not one, but TWO, (very) young toddlers, the three of whom were occupying not only 24D and F, but most of E as well. As I squeezed myself between them, navigating a backpack, stuffed Elmo toys, and even a two-year-old climbing over my lap to get his ninja sword, I resigned myself to my fate. Forget dreams of that hot romance instigated in JetBlue row 24. Hell, forget even catching up on some of that forgotten homework. My only option: sleep and pretend this wasn’t happening to me.
However, just as I was leaning back, iPod firmly planted in my ears and eyes squeezed shut, I received a small tap on my shoulder from said father.
“Excuse me my dear,” he said. (I’m sorry, but who the HELL calls a perfect stranger “my dear” unless it is an 80-year-old woman.) “Would you mind switching seats with me? I need to change Fanny’s diaper,” he continued.
I stood up, staring incredulously at the man and his children while a series of expletives raced through my mind and came to the tip of my tongue.
“Children are present, Nicola. Get it together. Find your Zen,” I told myself.
As the smell prevented me from resuming my nap, I half-heartedly picked up the romance novel I’d purchased on the way out, and pretended to read. When all manner of wiping and discarding had ceased, I thought I was home free, until, of course just my luck, “24D” decided he was going to make things up to me by engaging in conversation. Fuck.
“So, going back to school, huh?”
“Yep.”
“You ready?”
“Nope.”
After a series of questions and monosyllabic answers, I thought he had given up. But ten minutes later I received a:
“I’m Kurt by the way. What’s your name?”
“Um...Nicola. Like Nicole, but with an ‘a’ at the end.”
At which point things started to get interesting, with the response of:
“Really?! No shit! My first love’s name was Nicola! I met her in England, and we had the most amazing kiss in Hyde Park, and just the craziest summer. I wonder what happened to her...”
I think my mouth fell open in shock. Was this guy really telling me this? But now, I thought he was kinda cool. Which is when I realized that the mews and whimpers from the seat beside him had subsided, and both kids lay curled up, napping soundly. Though still skeptical, I was becoming a little more open to conversation. What else did I have to do? History of Art and Architecture 1 reading could wait.
Over the next six hours we talked about the most eccentric things that two complete strangers could possibly discuss (plus the kids slept the entire time—maybe they overdosed?). I learned that Kurt was an artist in Rhode Island whose wife was a clothing designer. I told him about my concentration and how it was completely random and did not fit into anything I would ever consider doing in life, and how honestly, at a place like Harvard, that lack of direction made me anxious. We discussed crushes and boyfriends, (more about) first-loves and marriage. We talked so much that when the pilot turned on the seat belt sign for landing, I was actually surprised at how fast the trip had gone by.
This isn’t to say that I gleaned anything truly monumental from my trip back to Boston. Instead, the flight reasserted my understanding of just how lucky I am. I mean, of course I would have preferred the window seat in an exit row, but that day on the airplane proved to me that my Harvard skepticism sometimes controls my life. Every once and a while things suck, and the prospect of sitting in the middle seat between a dad and two babies certainly did suck. But things could have been a lot worse—I mean, Kurt could have been the obese father of triplets trying to squeeze into two seats. And it’s not like I was flying to a war-torn country or my mother’s funeral. I was going back to school at Harvard, and the people sitting next to me weren’t so bad after all. So basically, I promise I’m gonna stop bitching, because in general, things are pretty damn good.
