Southern Hospitality
With only an hour transit time in Sydney, I chanced an earlier departure from Tullamarine and despite the long term carpark maze, peak hour traffic for the drop off and a queue at the ‘international connections’ counter, I strolled off satisfied with an arrival half an hour before the scheduled flight. A couple of hours later, seated in QF 7, all geared up for the long leg ahead, squashed in the aisle seat next to two large african american fellas, we waited, and waited — on the tarmac for one and a half hours. But I had patience in abundance — this was the beginning of a six month adventure (and inflight entertainment on demand didn’t hurt).
Fifteen or so hours later, under clear blue sky, a wave, rather than a blast, of hot air hit as I navigated Dallas Fort Worth international airport. My ears as yet un-attuned to the southern drawl I somehow missed terminal B. After circumnavigating the airport again, then a one and a half hour security check, I still had time and patience in abundance. For once my Dallas departure was not impeded by ‘weather’. Hurricane Irma had fizzled out further east, Mary sat seemingly stagnate off the Caribbean, and Nate was weeks off forming.
Boarding the Canadair plane, wandering down the narrow aisle, I approached my designated seat. A tubby balding man twirled around, “Which is your seat, Ma’am?” I responded. “Is that an English accent I hear?” and he was off, cheerily meandering through a plethora of topics for the entirety of the two and a half hour flight. Having caught countless long and short haul flights, typically spent in seclusion and silence, somehow, without fail, this Dallas — Tallahassee leg has always afforded entertaining conversational partners. American Airlines’ Eagle division is pretty basic — no entertainment and minimal inflight service. I wondered if boredom was the defining factor. Sarah later corrected my conclusion “Lisa, this is the South!”
After attempting a cockeyed Australian accent, Brad (I think he called himself) was astounded that an Aussie would be flying to Tallahassee. Momentarily pausing for my reply, Brad’s running exchange soon settled on accents. When South Africa came up I interjected “I’m heading there in a month, then Zimbabwe” adding details about my trip. He barely processed my words, regaling me instead with tales of his South African, European and British work stints. A woman from the seat in front turned and instituted herself into his monologue. To her auburn hair, alluring smile and confident stance I became suddenly superfluous. Maybe this will be a quiet flight after all I considered, and made moves to get my laptop and headphones out. But soon talk of Australia resumed and I was invited back. Working in the restaurant industry had taken the red head to Adelaide. As we stood talking across topics, contrasting the US and home, from the quality of beef to blocks of land, she drawled “But you guys,all your lots are fenced in”. The American ‘lot’ or block, down south at least, to my eye seemed to have no boundary. The expansive older houses might have a wire fence out back, the newer suburban home a rear plank fence, and pools without safety fences open to neighbours scrutiny. In the weeks following, even before the Las Vegas massacre (‘the worst in American history’), as I wandered Tallahassee neighbourhoods, American irony struck me — no fences but plenty of guns.
Taking our seats, the plane taxied for take off and Brad turned, “Apologies ma’m if you find me crying on your shoulder”. A little bemused by the jest, I noticed him clench the arm rest, adding “I’m not too fond of flying”. I wondered what I was in store for. The red head, still standing, asked how long it had been a problem, after all — with all the travelling he’d done. Brad worked as an agronomist, covering just a few states now but international projects perviously. “I’m not too sure, perhaps since 9–11”.
When he made reference to his age the red head in front, assuming she and I were of a similar vintage, confidently battered away the issue of numbers, freedom and flirtation still firmly in her grasp. I was left a little chagrin, as if I was letting the side down to be less than thrilled at turning 55 at my next birthday! The red head and Brad then compared culinary experiences. Heading to her sister’s on the Pan Handle Coast, Brad directed her to ribs at a local joint he knew there. Recipes were swapped. Taking out his phone he proudly thrust photos in my view, swiping frame after frame of non gourmet (though tasty I am sure) meals. He shared this passion with his daughter he added, swiping to show me her culinary attempts. She was off in college but come summer, she’d have to find herself a job, just like he did when he was young. From food to religion, my two travel mates soon made guarded reference to guns, their almost silent nod to each other was my cue to keep my views to myself.
The flight attendant interrupted our conversation (well, my listening) offering tasty pretzels and luke warm tea. There was silence for a few minutes as I nibbled and sipped. Brad’s hands rested on the armrest, not quite clenched but enough to draw my compassion and his conversation. I asked about his home. He lived in Georgia. Atlanta airport was 3 hours away he told me. With its hellish traffic and lengthy security checks, Tallahassee airport, small, one hour from home and with minimal security, was the easy option. His wife would pick him up he added, telling me about her career, how she had taken time off from teaching to look after their son. I asked about his son, as seemed appropriate. “He died a year ago”. I was flawed. In his early twenties, after a decade or more fighting leukaemia, the son had passed. Brad told the facts, not in a blasé way, but in a manner that kept a lid on this emotion, emotion that was bubbling away, almost visible, but not quite. And after a brief acknowledgement of my condolences, Brad diverted the conversation back to more light hearted topics.
By the time the tires thumped on the tarmac Brad knew very little of me. For two and a half hours he had used self deprecation as a defence and humorous patter to allay his anxiety. But I pondered his disclosure. He had not wanted to elaborate on his son’s illness or death. He was not seeking my sympathy. I wondered, was letting the story out drip by drip to a stranger on a plane, leaving a puddle of sadness here, a pool of emotion there, was this his way to avoid releasing the torrent of grief in one devastating flood.
The cabin crews’ cross check complete we stood at the rear of the plane poised to disembark. Our conversation stuttered to a stop. There was no good bye. I turned and led off up the aisle, taking a few drops of his grief with me. As they washed off my back with ease I wondered if his journey was all he hoped for.
