“guess what?” asked Sarah. “I’m being sent to the South Pole in November. I have to go for three weeks to check out a rescue station and write a report!” She laughed. “How... interesting,” I lied. “You sound like you’re taking it quite well.” “It’ll be terrible,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t remember if it’s going to be light 24 hours a day, or dark 24 hours a day. I don’t even own a parka.” “Sounds great,” I said. Then I remembered. “Oh, Sarah, you don’t still have that airport theory, do you?” “Of course,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s the greatest place to meet people. Last time I went to Chicago, I met this guy in the lounge in St. Louis. Then, when I was waiting for my mom to pick me up, I started talking to this other guy outside of baggage claim. He was with his girlfriend, but they were both witty. We ended up having dinner that night and I tell you, they were a hoot.” “Don’t you think it’s a little strange how you, um, collect people at airports and on planes?” “I don’t know what it is. I just seem to attract the funniest, most interesting people when I’m in transit. Remember the guy I met at the SFO bar?” “You mean the guy who thought you were a hooker?” “No, that was at La Guardia.” “I can’t say that I do.” “Come on. The one who worked for the newspaper. He was writing an article on airport bars. He thought Personalities sounded like a good bar to start with —” “Huh.” “—And he ended up giving Harriet some freelance work.” I listened for a while as Sarah continued to give me details of her upcoming trip — one of the highlights was that she’d have to change planes twice. I’ve always held on to the old-fashioned theory that the only way to meet people — either date-worthy or platonic — is through your circle of friends. Maybe it’s just my suspicious nature, but I just can’t imagine striking up a conversation with someone in an airport lounge, particularly one called Personalities. It goes back to a few snobbish assumptions. One is, what kind of person hangs out in a bar and talks to people? (Well, Sarah, for one.) Two, of course, is the safety factor: is this a nice person, or is he Ted Bundy? Three concerns the fact that I don’t have enough time for the friends that I have already, so why would I want more? Four is ... well, it just seems hokey. My friend Matt has met two women on planes that he’s dated, and still another acquaintance of mine actually met and married the man who sat next to her on a flight to Paris. My mother is another story, being one of those people who gets asked directions, fashion advice, weather predictions and preferences on laundry detergent every time she so much as steps outside her house. I’ve seen her disembark from a plane with a fistful of business cards that have been thrust upon her over the course of a two-hour flight. Being in a plane is, for me, an event a little bit sacred — it seems personal, like the so-called quality time when you’re in the bathroom. You don’t stand and talk to strangers through a bathroom stall door, so why encroach on their time in a plane? I am one of those who goes armed with headphones, novels, bills to pay, letters to write, columns to consider. I have been known to actually get up and change seats, quite openly, if my neighbor is particularly loquacious. When I told Sarah this, she just shook her head. “You’re missing out. I’m telling you.” Still, I made a resolution this year to be more open-minded, so on a recent plane trip to New York, I sat down, organized all my newspapers and books and bottled water in the seat pocket in front of me, and eagerly looked around. The bespectacled young guy sitting by himself on the other side of the aisle was reading what looked like an arty little hardcover novel. Hmmm. If I just craned my neck to one side I could barely make out the author’s picture. Okay, if it’s a classic, I’ll talk to him... if it’s post-modern, it’s a toss-up ... and if it’s Roth, Mailer, Miller or Burroughs, forget it. He coughed and shifted the book. The spine winked at me. “The Bridges of Madison County,” by Robert James Waller. Where’s that Walkman? Do airports get you in the mood? Take off in Table Talk.