I was flying for work, seated in business class aboard a Boeing 747, which meant I was fortunate enough to enjoy one of those curious seating arrangements where some passengers face forward and others backward. I was facing the front of the plane. Directly across from me—facing the rear—was a woman I learned was a professional model on her way to a photo shoot in Cape Town.
We hit it off immediately. Conversation flowed with that rare ease only found in high altitudes and complimentary wine service. We chatted through dinner, compared travel horror stories, and laughed more than I expected to at 30,000 feet. It felt like the kind of connection you only read about in travel magazines—fleeting, fizzy, unforgettable.
Eventually, the cabin lights dimmed and it was time to sleep. We exchanged a final warm smile, reclined our seats, and drifted into our separate airborne dreams.
That’s when things got… strange.
In my dream, I was back in a crowded classroom— surrounded by about a hundred people. Every time I delivered a trumpet solo from the lower brass section, the whole room erupted in laughter. Not just chuckles, either. We’re talking full-on, doubled-over, tears-streaming- down-their-faces kind of laughter.
And I? I was the star of the show. The king of comedy. I remember thinking, finally, someone appreciates my natural talents. Every laugh was a standing ovation. Every sound effect, a punchline that brought the house down. I laughed with them—maniacally, joyfully— like a man whose moment had arrived.
And then… I woke up. I greeted my seatmate with the same cheerful energy from the night before— but something had shifted. She avoided my eyes. Her posture stiffened. That lovely rapport we’d built somewhere over the Sahara had vanished like the last scoop of dessert in coach.
I chalked it up to jet lag. Or maybe turbulence in the friendship. These things happen.
A week later, I returned to the Cape Town airport for my flight home—and there she was again. Same terminal. Same jacket. Same withering glance. I couldn’t help myself.
“Ma’am, if I may,” I said as gently as I could, “I just wanted to say I really enjoyed our conversation last week. I noticed you’ve been a bit distant… did I say something wrong?”
She gave me a look I will never forget—a mix of disbelief, amusement, and something just shy of pity. Then she said, “You must’ve thought you were dreaming.”
And that’s when I knew. It hadn’t been a dream. Not entirely. The soundtrack of my REM cycle had, in fact, made it to the live performance.
The moral? Altitude does strange things to a man. At a certain elevation, reality bends, boundaries blur, and your body starts filing complaints in frequencies not everyone can ignore.
Summer travel brings its own set of dangers: sunburns, lost luggage, and—if you’re not careful—unexpected soundtracks from your own rear cargo bay. Dignity, like cabin pressure, is a fragile thing, and no seat—flat, reclining, or otherwise—can cushion the shock of a dream turned audible.
So as you gear up for your great summer escape, pack wisely. Hydrate. Choose your pre-flight meals like you’re entering a gastrointestinal hostage situation. And above all, remember this: Not every cabin release is an announcement. Not every hush is peaceful. And not every hero wears a cape—some just quietly pass through the clouds and pray they weren’t mic’d.
