Travel writers are not supposed to miss flights. My brother-in-law was on top of his pizza game, making his famous New York-Neapolitan pies in the backyard. The sun was setting over Silver Lake. I was lingering for one more slice and to finish my glass of Sicilian red. Way behind schedule, I tumbled out curbside at Tom Bradley International Terminal and barreled toward the Latam check-in desk. Are you a veteran of L. We want to publish your story.
Flight for Lima, Peru, was boarding. I had a middle seat, next to a man with dark hair who turned out to be friendly and funny, and a little neurotic.
Conversation came naturally. We were both on our way to South America for work; he to film something for Netflix in Buenos Aires, me to write about Inca trails in Peru. The more we talked, the more we seemed to have in common. The cabin lights dimmed and passengers all around us began to sleep according to red-eye routine. We kept talking, about travel, about Los Angeles, about food. He was almost aggressively honest, seeming to say whatever popped into his head.
It felt like a date, albeit a weird one, spent mostly facing forward staring at the seat back in front of me. He looked very different at different angles in the blue-tinted darkness. More L. Affairs columns. Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean near Central America, he took the flimsy plane blanket and draped it over his lap.
He pulled some over my legs. I felt my knee melt into his knee. He grabbed my hand like it was part of a routine and held it. It was bizarre and exciting. Two frequent fliers faking intimacy at 30, feet. He leaned on my shoulder, and I rested my head onto his. I napped fitfully, too riled up to actually rest. Before long we were landing. Under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, we stood across from each other and mentioned meeting back in L.
