As children, we learn that talking to strangers is something we should never do. I disagree.
I say, the stranger the better. And the best place to do so is at the airport, which is where I found myself with three extra hours of time this weekend. In general, people are averse to talking to strangers because they suspect that people who approach them with no obvious reason are either con men or crazy. But this doesn't apply at airports, which, like Hugh Grant says in "Love Actually" (2003), are a place of love, actually.
Airports are a place of people who are nervous about flying and want some human comfort; people who are so happy to have finally gotten away from their families, they'll tell anyone about it; people who travel alone a lot and are perpetually lonely; people who never travel alone and are newly lonely; people who've been passing time by making identities for other people and want to confirm their intuitions about you; people who've been passing time by making up their own identities and need someone try them out on. The point is, it's easier to pick up a temporary friend at an airport than it is to pick up whomever College ACB is currently swearing is easier.
And the nice thing is that, while it's sad to say goodbye to a real−life friend, the fact that you'll soon never see these strangers again is the very foundation of your fleeting companionship. I've met some crazy people in this manner and some wise ones. I've opened up to people I shared little more than a couple hours on a bus with and played shrink to dozens more.
That's not to say one should abandon all discretion when choosing acquaintances. The lady sitting next to me on the plane, for example, seemed innocuous enough at first, which should alone have made me skeptical, as I've never spent a plane ride next to someone who didn't smell bad or have the bladder of a pregnant lady or get drunk within an hour of takeoff. Once we got to talking, that was it; she didn't even stop to let me hear how to secure my own breathing mask before securing that of another person, should I be traveling with one. Instead, I heard about the weather in Baltimore, her son's accomplishments, her week's itinerary, … "n," where "n" is the last element of the finite series of mundane conversation topics. (She finally relented to play with her kid, whom she whined at for cheating at Hangman before throwing a hissy fit because she didn't want to play Go Fish and her kid did, and her kid ALWAYS got to choose the game. When she tried to get me mixed into this conversation, I had no choice but to feign sleep.) Romy: 0. The universe: 1.
Then there was my BFF, the stewardess. Our relationship developed slowly but steadily, as she came by first for snacks, then for drinks, then for garbage. The other passengers got jealous, or just hungry, when she stopped by my seat to chat with me for longer than she did with anyone else. I'm fairly sure she mistook my friendliness for flirting, though, and was almost definitely flirting back. This culminated when, passing by my seat wholly unnecessarily, she took my headband, which I was holding, out of my hands, told me it was nice and then walked up the aisle to show it to all of her stewardess friends. I think, at that point, the relationship dynamic shifted, and I became her plaything. Universe: 2.
But I don't mean to come off on the side of the worried parent. These were a couple of memorable new friends, but there were plenty of pleasant−enough conversations to make the endeavor worth my while, not least of all small talk with the hot pilot. Romy: 1.
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