Last night, flying from Philadelphia to Fort Lauderdale, I did something I hadn't done in a long time: I conducted a lengthy conversation with my seatmate.
She was a 14-year-old Romanian-Canadian coming to Sunny Isles for a month to play tennis. I told her I'd been to her homeland twice, and pulled from my bookbag a postcard of my book. (I usually have it on me when I travel; you never know whom you're going to meet.) Handing it to her, I pointed out the subtitle: "From Texas to Transylvania with a Maverick Traveler."
"Vlad Dracul," she said, and I told her I'd ignored the Dracula angle completely. I didn't mention that I focused instead on the Hungarian minorities.
She loved Miami, though described the downtown, quite accurately, as "sketchy." She was homeschooling herself online; she had some French homework in her knapsack. But her passion was tennis. She liked Federer and admired Nadal; she thought Djokovic was starting to slip. Her favorite woman player had been Justine Henin.
I told her she'd be here for the Sony Ericsson Open. Her eyes lit up; she thought it was in April. I told her to go early in the tournament, and wander the outside courts. Federer usually practices on one a couple hours before his match.
As the plane started its descent over Davie she looked out at the illuminated flatness, ideal for tennis courts, and said, "Home sweet home."
