Talking to passengers on planes
Avoidance is easy. I sit down, put on my headphones, stare at my book or my phone, stare out the window, barely notice the fellow passenger next to me. In this way, there is no small talk turned into discomfort, no misunderstandings, no need to share my precious time with anyone, no anxiety what other passengers will think when they hear my thoughts echoing in the cabin. No connection. No problems.
In the past month I flew twice, and I spent both of those flights immersed in honest, personal, surprising conversations. I did not initiate the conversations. But there are people who are braver than me, or freer than me, or simply more daring, prioritising connection over comfort, or comfort in connection over comfort in avoidance. And I am their eager disciple.
Gatwick airport was overflowing with people, who sat on the stairs and floors, as flights kept getting delayed and cancelled. Weather conditions, they said. When I was finally on the plane, the flight attendant offered a complimentary glass of water, as an apology for a less-than-subtle three hour delay. I took the glass, and my fellow passenger (occupying the window seat) took this as an opportunity to catch my attention. You inspired me to listen to music, he said, the way you danced in your seat with your headphones on. I did not notice that I was dancing. I guess I am not noticing a lot of things these days. It is easy not to, in this system of attention capitalism, as they call it. There was research published, showing that some people are more willing to administer themselves electroshocks than to sit with their own thoughts without any distractions. Which first feels shocking, and then more understandable, when I notice my hand reaching towards my phone, reading horrifying headlines. Day after day of such thought and emotion avoidance may work as vaccination, bit by bit getting immune to deep awareness of self and the environment. No wonder I did not notice myself dancing. But he did. (And I trust his observation, as I was listening to the soundtrack of Hamilton, which is very dance-able).
And so we started to talk. About the music from the 80s and what is bringing both of us to Lisbon, about building technology and exctatic dance, about critical thinking and learning to set boundaries, about doing what feels right while not necessarily being realistic, and about surfing. I was holding my guard up, unsure of the stranger's intentions, but after a while I felt like I read my fellow passenger enough to tune into the conversation deeper, as he was telling me about the funeral he was coming back from. It was sunny, he said. We actually buried someone. Emotions were rolling down his face and I felt a massive privilege in the trust this stranger was investing in me. Two hours later, we said goodbye the way we said hello, with peaceful confidence - in ourselves, in the situation, in the world as a whole. No contacts exchanged. Just names. You can mention my cynical views in your book he said - even though I never mentioned that I write. So I after the flight, I took some notes on Daniel's views. Just in case chapter seven on my book may be about strangers on the planes.
It surprised me how much energy I gained from that single conversation. As I was waiting at a passport line, I texted my brother, and then my best friend about it. Once I reached home, I told my partner all about it. I mentioned it to my family, I researched deeper the concepts we discussed. I ended up finding a dance space that practice intuitive movement, that Daniel talked about. But most importantly, I felt tremendous power in connecting to a fellow human - hearing the views that were so refreshing and unusual, feeling that I can ask about the death in the life of an utter stranger, diving into the process that is so much more interesting than any book, game, or a piece of music (even including Hamilton), than I can pick up on the flight. And this is coming from an introvert.
Two weeks later I was stepping into an aircraft again, about to fly to Lithuania, when I noticed a baby smiling her saliva-dripping smile, rising above the narrow seats. As I approached my row, I realised that my designated seat was right next to the salivating baby. I quickly became friends with both of the baby's parents, and spent the upcoming five hours discussing intercultural families, surprises of parenthood, the rise of political polarisation and board games. They ended up offering me to hold their baby (I accepted), and sharing their contacts if I ever want to participate in the board game night (I accepted), as well as sour cream pringles (I declined). I will hide the baby's name to protect her privacy as no consent was shared, but I can tell you that Chris is from England and Carmen is from Spain, and they live in Lithuania, so I was teaching them how to locate unique local snacks and quality restaurants worth their while, laughing at their honest opinions of the country - people are very warm once you penetrate through The Gray, Chris said, and I knew exactly what he meant by it. Shared intercultural understanding. I kept bringing up this conversation for days after. I felt strangely proud of it, even though, when I think about it, there is nothing more basic than engaging with another human being.
I could have ignored the offering of honest exchange, or the saliva dripping on my hand rail, produced at an unimaginable rate by the four month old human. I often ignore all that. It is much safer to ignore, much more efficient to avoid. And yet, every exchange with a stranger keeps reaffirming the visceral feeling in my gut that this is exactly what being human is about - connecting to other humans, with a bit too much honesty or too much judgement. No one is perfect and I am starting to think that it is a feature, not a bug. There is beauty in this dissonant dance of acknowledging other people around us, seeing how similar our challenges are, how easily our pain comes up when listened to, how freely our joy flows when reinforced.
Next time, I will try to be the one who says hello on a flight. I owe it at this point. To the fellow passengers, but also to myself, as it is such a potent reminder that we are always travelling together. Literally. Metaphorically. Unwilling to ignore each other, to avoid each other, realising how much we lose when we do. And how much we win when we extend the offering of honesty beyond the narrow circle of us.
