Last week at LAX I took a seat at the bar of a Mexican restaurant to watch the Australian Open. Even before I sat down the young man next to me started talking. I soon found out why: he was three quarters of the way through a nine-hour layover between Auckland and Miami. From Miami he was flying to St. Martin, where he worked on a luxury yacht (the property of the owner of an energy drink).
A young man - also in a long-sleeved T-shirt - took a seat on the stool to my right. He was flying home to Melbourne, where he worked for a sky diving company. He had done over a thousand dives, he said, including one onto the field before an Australian Rules Football semifinal one year.
The Kiwi looked at him with awe. The Aussie asked him what he did, and he told of his stint on a luxury yacht in the Caribbean. I don't remember if the Aussie actually said it, but his reaction was a clear, "good on ya, mate." I sat back happily, enjoying the spectacle of other people impressing with their professions.
