Conversations on Continental.

People don't like to toy when they are sitting, claustrophobic, on a puddle-jumper. But boredom is not the answer. So I started up some conversation with the boy next to me who was so close we were touching elbows the entire way to Cleveland.

"Where you headed?"

I asked this and noticed for the first time what the kid looked like. He had those sweeping bangs so that in order to see with both eyes, he had to flick his head every 6.8 seconds.

"To see my dad in South Carolina. You?"

"To see my dad in Chicago."

He smirked. I smirked. Maybe we had something in common.

The boy on my left side had stashed under his seat a really sweet rasta bag. I imagined that maybe I wasn't going to the Cleveland airport, but rather to Jamaica, or the Bahamas, or what the hell, somewhere in Africa.

"Was I snoring?" He asked me as the plane took it's rough and tumble landing.

"What?" I asked.

"Snoring? Was I snoring?"

What a way to meet someone, I thought. "Uh. I don't think so."

On my way off the plane, I told him nonchalantly that I liked his bag. This was probably a mistake.

He caught up with me as soon as I stepped off. "A friend of mine gave it to me."

"Oh?"

"So, where you going?"

"Chicago," I told him.

"Chicago. I'll be going to school there in the fall. Ever heard of Aurora?"

"Nope. But that's cool. I'll be applying to Northwestern for grad school."

After that our conversation lulled. Maybe he realized I'm not as young as I look. I was thankful for the break anyhow. I mumbled my farewells and turned into the nearest ladies' room.

* * *

On my way back from Chicago, my flight to Erie was delayed two hours and I sat "reading" Sarte and Hunter S. Thompson, once again, in the Cleveland airport. I watched as dazed flyers moved about either zombie-like or anxiously. I took a bite of my sandwich (Subway!) and pretended to not people watch. Of course, that's all anyone ever does in an airport - they pretend to read trashy novels or doze off to ipods, but let's be honest - everyone watches everyone.

I watched a girl with red hair walk back and forth on a cell phone several times, glancing up at our "delayed" status and plopping herself hopelessly next to me.

"Erie has the most stupid airport system." (This is honestly the most intelligent thing I could think to muster up, I was so exhausted)

She smiled at me with a mouthful of braces. "I know. I go to college in Meadville and almost every flight through Erie is delayed. I keep calling my friend who is supposed to pick me up and updating her on our new delayed status."

Her name is Andie (Andy?) and she apparently is from Chicago, and is a Sophomore English major at whatever school is near Meadville. We chatted about summer jobs and spring break as if we were friends bantering back and forth.

That's the cool thing about airports - you are allowed to act like best friends or spout out whatever sorry excuse for coherent sentences you may wish because you will never see the person again. I attribute this theory as to the reason why there are so many plane hook-ups. What are the odds you'll even receive a last name or number? Exactly.

I left, I returned, and I feel I have earned the title of "airplane/port conversationalist". Now everyday is another matter, but who needs small talk in everyday life? It's who you converse with along the way, coming, going, what have you, that leaves you the most surprised, the most wary, befuddled, exhilarated indeed.