I think I’ve done 23 flights, give or take a few, to Europe and back. Twenty-two of them were just me. No, no companion. Aisle seat, please. Two bags. Finally my 23rd flight, my mom decided to go with me. No more of this sitting next to the business man who opens his Excel spreadsheet the moment after he stows his carry-on. He also sleeps in his shirt and tie and dress pants. I don’t get that. We don’t really talk. Not this time, though. I have someone to drag luggage with, someone to share the armrest with, someone to give my disgusting jello to. Mom doesn’t want it either, though. Let’s face it, it’s gross and even a mother’s love is not willing to go that far. She does talk me into getting one of those mini bottles of wine, however. And doesn’t drink any. I think she just wants the bottle to use as a vase later and is offering me up as the airplane lush.
Of course, there are pros to flying with and pros to flying without. Flying alone means I can say anything I want to people. They’ll never see me again. Or I can say nothing. And I can indulge in hours of playing Professor Layton’s Curious Village on my Nintendo DS. Hours and hours. Sometimes I'm unstoppable. And I don’t have to stop, because really, there’s nothing else to do.
But then, there’s no one to laugh with about running to catch a packed train with 200 lbs of luggage. This time there was.
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