On a flight to L.A. last week I met Franklin.
“I wanted a window seat,” he said. “And this is what I got.” I glanced up as a courtesy to see him wedged against the sidewall. It was his first time flying. He was leaving Alaska at 19 in search of new life in California, and hoping to see a small piece of the world along the way. No such luck. He spent the entire flight at a 45 degree angle, trying to get a glimpse out of the window to the left of the seat in front of him.
Sitting in the aisle of a 737 furiously cleaning out my inbox as usual, I didn’t care much about the experience; in my mind, it’s an expensive hassle that I’ve got to deal with a bit too often. That’s it. Until Franklin squeezed in, claiming his “window seat,” I felt generally indifferent.
Even though I firmly believe that proper etiquette at 30,000 ft. is to zip it and mind your own business, talking to Franklin brought my belief in the 787 as a game changer back to life. Sure we’re still waiting, but isn’t that just part of the romance?