It was Monday night—two weeks ago—when I laid down to sleep, ready to begin a new work week. I was thankful for the Monday holiday, because I was still recovering from my weekend in Seattle. The previous two days had been filled with emotional ups and downs, and I hadn’t yet decided what I thought of it all. I recounted the events in my head—my thoughts dwelling mostly on the return flight home.
That’s when I remembered. I got out of bed, left my bedroom and entered my living room. My skateboard was propped up against the wall beside my bike. I picked it up, laid it on the carpet, got on and rode it a short distance across the room. One push was all I needed. I picked it back up and returned it to its place. I returned to bed, turned out the lights and quietly whispered, “Promise kept.”
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Two days prior, I took a flight to Seattle to visit my friend Jeff and attend the Redskins/Seahawks playoff game. The trip was long and uncomfortable, but when I arrived, Jeff and his fiancé Jeanette took me out for a bite to eat. We talked a while, then they dropped me off at my hotel.
The night was quick and the morning quicker. It wasn’t long before I was at Jeff and Jeanette’s condo, preparing to leave for the game with Jeff and his uncle Ron, who flew in from Texas. We bid adieu to Jeanette and were on our way. We took a bus to the stadium and endured the taunting of Seahawks fans the entire trip to the stadium, all throughout the game, and during the bus trip home. Because the Redskins lost, the return trip was the worst of it. That’s when I decided I would never go to another Redskins away game.
The next morning, I was eager to get up, get ready and get to the airport. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy seeing Jeff, or traveling to a new city. It’s not even the fact that the Redskins lost. It was mostly the unsportsmanlike behavior of the fans on both sides. I’m sensitive, in general, about having people dislike me—so being confronted with such bold hostility from the residents of a foreign city was quite a load for me to carry. By Sunday, I just wanted to go home and put it all behind me.
I arrived at the airport with two hours to kill. I sat in the waiting area at my gate with my laptop and some rented Wi-Fi access. I paid $10 for all-day access in the airport. It was the first time I had been able to get online in Seattle, because I couldn’t connect at the hotel. After checking my email and responding to some production fires at Sprint Nextel, my supposed all-day Internet access crapped out. So typical of the weekend. For the remainder of my wait, I watched the Steelers demolish the Colts on a tiny overhead television in the gate waiting area.
When it was time to board the plane, my spirits lifted slightly. It won’t be long now. I had a window seat, so I pulled out my iPod, propped my head against the window and prepared for a 5-hour nap. The next time I open my eyes, I’ll be home.
But it was not meant to be.
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It was nearly time for the airplane door to shut, and there was still no one else seated in my row. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and no one else will sit here. I was overdue for a little bit of luck.
As a few more passengers entered the plane, I noticed a very pretty, short-haired brunette looking in my direction. I take that back… Please, let her sit beside me. When she came to my row, we exchanged smiles. But she turned around and faced the other side of the aisle. She spoke to an Asian woman sitting in the aisle seat. I couldn’t hear her exact words, but I gathered that the Asian woman was in her seat. As the grumpy, older woman began picking up her belongings, the brunette quickly offered to simply switch seats. They both had aisle seats, so they agreed, and the pretty brunette seated herself at the end of my row, tossing a positive glance across the empty seat between us.
I had to think fast. If another person came to claim the middle seat, I would have to offer up my window seat. But that would be so obvious. I’d have to come up with some lame, yet amusing excuse. Like… But my thoughts were interrupted by the movement of the stewardesses towards the door.
When the airplane door closed, I closed my eyes for a short “thank you” prayer. Then I began to evaluate the situation. I couldn’t help but think of the opening scene in Unbreakable, where Bruce Willis’ character attempts to hit on the hot girl sitting beside him on the train. He was eventually shot down, and the woman moved to another seat. I could be risking the same embarrassment. …But then again, if things turned out sour, I could simply return to my original plan of listening to music and sleeping for the next 5 hours. There really was nothing to lose.
I tried to learn all I could about her before speaking. It was simple observation. She was very well dressed for her age (which I placed at low-twenties). She wore fashion jeans and a black blazer-like top. She had perfect hair—well groomed, thick and shiny. She traveled light with two stylish shoulder bags. Most importantly, she traveled alone, and her ring finger was bare. It could have been wishful thinking, but I immediately pegged her for a fashion model—or certainly a girl of that caliber.
The first thing I said was how lucky we were to not have someone sitting between us. She looked at me peculiarly, as if she didn’t understand. I patted the middle seat and repeated what I said. “Oh…lucky! Yes. We’re…lucky,” she said slowly with a pleasant smile and a thick central-European accent. I knew it! I asked her if she was visiting Washington, D.C. or returning home. She said she was returning to New York via D.C. I asked her what part of New York she lived in, and with a slight cringe and much humility, she answered, “Manhattan.” I freakin’ knew it!
I decided not to ask her what she did. It was conceivable that a young, single, fashionable European woman could live in Manhattan and NOT be a model. But the allusion was fun, so I let it remain.
When the steward came by with the food cart, I carefully considered what I should order. Definitely nothing messy, smelly, or with the potential to stick to my teeth. Try to anticipate what she’ll order. I requested a Cobb salad. “I’ll have the same,” she said, then smiled at me. When the drink cart came, I requested a Diet Pepsi, and she a normal Pepsi. She’s not strict about her diet. I followed her lead and drank straight from the Pepsi can and declined a cup with ice. Despite my hunger, I refrained from eating my entire salad. In fact, I ate the fruit portion of the meal and practically ignored the salad. With the dressing, it seemed a bit messy to eat in front of her. “Yeah, the salad’s not very good,” she said. I wouldn’t know. “You don’t want mine, right? I’m going to throw it away.” I was tempted to take her uneaten fruit, but didn’t know whether that would be considered gross. She seemed puzzled by my hesitation. I covered by saying that I didn’t know whether or not she was offering me her unopened bag of pretzels. “No way!” She exclaimed and quickly grabbed her snack bag, holding it close to her like a child. “These are mine!” We both laughed. When the steward came by to collect the trash, I reluctantly relinquished my uneaten salad along with hers.
I asked her how her holiday season had been. She told me she spent it visiting her mother in the Czech Republic. I told her one of my friends had been there recently and told me the country was beautiful. I asked her if Prague was in the Czech Republic (I honestly didn’t know). “It’s the capital,” she said with a look that branded me a retard. I laughed and apologized for my ignorance.
At this time, I wasn’t sure if she wanted to continue our conversation, or go to sleep. I decided not to talk for several minutes and see what she’d do.
“You were here for the game?” she asked, pointing to the gold and burgundy Redskins Relief Fund bracelets dangling from my left wrist. Apparently, I wasn’t the only observant one. I confirmed her suspicion and admitted it had been a tough weekend for my home team and I. “I hate football,” she declared, “It’s too violent.” I asked her what sports she did enjoy, and she said soccer, running, biking and working out… “You know, the usual stuff.” I brought up the winter Olympics and asked her if she had any national interest in the games. “Hockey is pretty big in the Czech Republic.” She asked me if I had heard of Jamir Jagr and some other hockey player. I told her Jagr used to play for the Washington Capitals, and I’d seen him play at the MCI Center. I did not, however, mention what a disappointment he had been during his years in Washington.
“What sports do you play?” she asked. Explaining kickball to her was a lost cause. When I mentioned tennis, she seemed only slightly interested. She countered that she loved to ski and described a recent trip she’d been on in New York. “Do you like to ski?” she asked. I told her I was interested in snowboarding, but had never gone, because I never had an opportunity or a reason to go.
We talked about travel for a bit, but I had little to add. I told her I had never been outside the United States. She seemed shocked (as most people are). I assured her I’d wanted to visit Europe for a long time, but… “—You haven’t had a reason to,” she finished. Am I that predictable? “You always need a reason! What reason do you need?” she asked. I wanted to reply, Well, if I had someone like you to go with… But I said nothing. Since Monday was a holiday for both of us, she demanded that I do something athletic on my day off. She suggested I go skiing, but I offered an alternative. I told her I’d ride my skateboard just for her. “Yes! Do it!” she exclaimed. And I promised her I would.
She asked me if I had any playing cards. Unfortunately, I didn’t. I suggested a game of Hangman, but then withdrew my suggestion on the basis that she would use difficult Czech words that I would never be able to guess.
She talked about touring Seattle with her friends. She said if I ever go back, I should check out the public library in downtown Seattle. “It’s gorgeous. Just like an art gallery.” She explained how her friend’s mother had a room dedicated to her, because she knew the architect. “Be sure to visit the yellow room. That’s her room.”
Around this time, I realized I was now speaking in somewhat broken English, which made it easier for us to communicate.
When the in-flight movie began, we agreed to watch it together. It was Corpse Bride, which I’d been wanting to see anyway. She took off her shoes, tucked one leg Indian-style underneath her, lifted the arm rests between us, and covered herself with an airline blanket. The seventy minutes of silence that followed was broken only by an occasional chuckle or empathetic whimper for the characters in the movie. I was finally able to take a break from the stress of conversation and appreciate what was happening. I was basically on a five-hour date with an amazing girl. We shared conversation, dinner and a movie—and still had time for more.
When the movie ended, we sat in silence for a long time. It was a somewhat sad ending for the corpse bride, and it put us in a silent mood.
I stared out the window for what seemed like an hour. Eventually, the plane turned slightly, and I was face to face with the clearest full moon I had ever seen. The plane hovered above the clouds, and the moon hung in the sky—alone and majestic. I must have gasped, because the girl turned towards me and asked me what I was looking at. I told her she should take a look at the moon, which she did. She leaned across me and looked out the window. She reacted with a similar gasp and said, “I heard there was going to be a full moon this weekend. …But I didn’t think I’d get to see it up close.”
The scene reminded me of another movie. I pictured Superman flying over the clouds with Lois Lane—the moon clearly visible above the clouds. Here I am, experiencing something only found in the movies. I’m flying above the clouds with Lois Lane. She looked at me with a look that straddled both happiness and sadness, but refrained from saying anything.
More time passed in silence.
The captain informed us that we were beginning our decent.
I asked her if she’d ever been sight-seeing in D.C. She regretfully admitted that she hadn’t. I informed her it was only a four-hour drive from New York. She said she would visit soon with some of her girlfriends. She asked me if I knew where all the good dance clubs were in D.C. I lied and said I did. She said she enjoyed dancing, but not to techno. “No computer music. No techno.” She enjoyed live music. “Do you dance?” she asked. I asked her to clarify what she meant by dancing. “You know… Can you waltz?” I told her that I could—that an ex-girlfriend had forced me to take a ballroom dancing class several years ago, which taught me how to waltz, foxtrot, salsa, etc. She said she wanted to go to a salsa club. I told her I could hook her up.
I gave her my card, which only had my phone number (she had to dig through her bag to find a pen, so she could get my email address). Man, I need new business cards with my email address. When I handed her my card, I realized that we didn’t know each other’s names. I introduced myself and extended my hand. She held one hand to her forehead in embarrassment, while shaking my hand with the other. “I’m so sorry… My name is…” At which point, she said something that sounded like Ramona. I asked her to repeat it, and the second time sounded more like Zramona. She never offered her contact information, so I was never quite sure what her name was.
I finally asked her what she did for a living. She said she was a student at NYCU (New York City University)—not to be confused with NYU—and was majoring in International Justice. She was also an au pair for a thirteen year old girl, who was quite the troublemaker. She lived with the family in Manhattan.
When we got off the plane, I asked her if I could get a picture of the two of us. “Absolutely!” she said, and then asked a woman waiting in the seating area to take our picture. When that was done, I briefly considered offering to wait with her for her next flight to New York. I decided not to, and instead we said goodbye. “I’ll email you, when I’m ready to visit D.C.,” she assured me.
As I walked down the long corridor towards the terminal, I was somehow sure I would never see or hear from her again. But rather than be distressed about our parting, I decided to appreciate the time we had spent together. I just spent five perfect hours with a perfect girl.
And that made the whole trip worthwhile.
