7E

Hi, everybody.  I’m back!  Fresh off a whirlwind trip to sunny Palm Springs and trendy L.A.  And I had a ball.  From takeoff to touchdown, the trip was a blast.  Tons of fun, friends, family- and food.

And a wedding.  OMG.  The Wedding of The Century.

JICYMI click here.

Did you miss me?  I missed all of you.  And good news.  While I was on vacay, the tech issues between Youtube and Google or whatever have been resolved, and once again, you can watch all my clips on whatever device you chose.  Yeah!

And now, lots of nifty things to tell you about so, “Let’s start at the very beginning.  That’s a very good place to start….”

I flew out to Cali with my brother Kenny and my sister-in-law Mary Lu.  We were  all going to the above wedding weekend, and we were supposed to be sitting together.

But when we convened at O’Hare and looked at our boarding passes, their seats were in row 8.  And I was assigned seat 37C.

Ick.

Aka “the back of the bus.”

“What happened?” I whined.  “When I looked at the reservation we were all together.  I hate bad seats.”

“Don’t worry.  I’ll handle it,” soothed my million-miler, million dollar brother.

So we all adjourned to the Red Carpet Club where Kenny worked his charm on the powers of seating and came back bearing a boarding pass that read “7E.”

“That’s better than our seats!” exclaimed Mary Lu.

And it was.  The bulkhead in Economy Plus. Now I had just as much room as First Class. (My second-favorite seating arrangement.  My first is what is known as “private aviation.” The ONLY way to fly.)

Private Aviation Sidebar:  If you ever get the opportunity to hitch a ride in someone’s plane, say “YES.”  No lines, no hassle, the time you save, the snotty frisson you get knowing that while the rest of the poor schnooks are stuck in some germ-ridden, kid-screaming, baggage-loosing aviation hell, you are blissfully winging your way quickly to a secluded tarmac where your car awaits you- usually already washed.

Back to reality.

When we boarded the plane I checked out my seat mates.  I was in the middle, after all.

The guy on my right?  Unremarkable.  Working industriously away on a laptop.  And everything about this guy screamed “married.”

To my left was another story.

Nerdy-but-cute, and smiling at me.

Okay.  Let the games begin.

As the rest of the plane trooped in, we made small talk.  He had his Ph.D from M.I.T. and he had just moved from Boston to teach at the U. of C.

Marketing.

Okay again.

This was going to be a nice flight.  By his questions, I could see that he was not adverse to my company.  Believe it or not, I’m pretty mellow on a plane.  In fact, I make it a rule to shut up and read or do crosswords or sleep.  I don’t engage my Up In The Air neighbors in small talk.

But I was in a festive, devil may care, pre-wedding mood, and this guy’s encouraging glances were enough for me to think about breaking my rule.

I was just thinking up some good blog-marketing questions when the flight attendant loomed into view.

“Can I move you, please?  This gentleman wants to change seats, and there is nowhere else.”

I glanced over to the across-the-aisle, middle seat she was pointing to.

I wasn’t feeling the move.

“Uh, do I have to?” I asked.  And spurred on by the disappointed look on Dr. Marketing’s face, I added, “I’m pretty happy here.”

“No, you don’t have to,” she conceded.  “But it would really be appreciated.”

“Just do it already, Ellen,” chimed in Kenny from the row behind me.  “Maybe there’s a free muffin in it for you.”

I moved.  But not because of the free muffin.  I just couldn’t take the pressure of all eyes in the row watching to see what I would do.

Now, in my new location, I was stuck in between a young guy in fingerless gloves wearing a hoodie wailing away on his iPhone, and a older woman who was reading a Kindle.

Not a good upgrade.

Oh well.

“I was supposed to be over there,” the guy in the hoodie said.  “You would have been seated next to me no matter what.”  And he smiled apologetically.

I felt bad.

“Yeah, I guess it was Kismet or Karma or fate that we were destined to be neighbors, after all.”

Hoodie Guy turned out to be terrific.  He was originally from Bloomington, Indiana- which led to all sorts of fun Breaking Away associations.  His sister is Quentin Tarrantino’s casting director- which led to the great Pulp Fiction reminiscences.

We talked about his new start up, and touched briefly on our romance problems.  He laughed when I told him about the pitfalls of dating- or not- at my age. (He was the same age as my son, Nick.)

He told me that he appreciated my honesty when I told him, that as the shallowest person on earth, I am only interested in tall, great-looking men with awesome cars.

He countered by telling me that his dad was the original broker on Steve McQueen’s Porsche, (drool) and that he was going to be doing some car racing in Cali when he went out to visit casting director Sis.

Then he told me that he had been up all night to make this flight, and he wanted to catch some z’s. No problem for me.  I had a Friday New York Times, and the crossword was just burning a hole in my paper.

I went to work and he went to sleep.  Right before the landing he awoke with a start.  He turned to me with a smile.

“It was great meeting you.  You really made my trip go faster.  And it’s the strangest thing. I never talk to people on planes.  But I felt a real connection with you.  A vibe.  It was actually really weird.”

“Yep, it was nice meeting you, too,” I said truthfully.  “Have a great time in Cali.  Uh, and I’m Ellen.”

“You have a great time, too, Ellen,” he said as he shook my hand good bye.

“And by the way, my name is Benedict.”