On my flight to Chicago last week I sat next to an older woman whose husband, sitting by the window, kept the shade down the entire flight. This is behavior I fail to understand; even if you’re unmoved by cloud formations, don’t you want to see the moment you “slip the surly bonds of Earth”? Even more vital for me is a view of the landing, knowing when to expect the gratifying jolt of wheels on tarmac. If I had a smaller prostate I would always book a window seat – and keep the shade up the entire flight.
Not this man. He kept working on his crossword as we taxied to the gate, which, at O’Hare, is a considerable journey. We had flown over a thousand miles and he had no interest in seeing what the landscape or weather were like in this new place. Perhaps, I thought, he has an eye condition that makes him sensitive to bright light. But then why would he book a window seat?
Finally, moved by some unprecedented spark of curiosity, he lifted the shade two inches to peer out. I leaned over greedily, demonstrably, to catch a glimpse at the great outdoors before he banned it from sight.
“Do you want him to open the shade?” the woman asked me.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been sitting in a tube for the last three hours.”
He obliged. A few seconds later, we arrived at the gate.
