How not to behave when sitting next to me on a flight

First, a positive example.

On my flight from Buffalo to my connection in Atlanta, there were a few soldiers. The sight of them in their desert fatigues was pretty sobering. One soldier actually had his parents with him at the gate. I haven't seen families at the gate to say goodbye to their loved ones since security clamped down after 9/11. I suppose they make exceptions for young men heading off to war.

This particular soldier was trying to keep things light, cracking lines here and there to make his parents smile. Finally, he trapped himself in something that looked like a joke at first.

"I can't even take care of myself. How am I supposed to take care of someone else?" They started to chuckle dutifully, but then went suddenly silent. The father and son embraced in a bone crushing hug, which showed no signs of stopping. I smiled at the mother as she waved me past them in the lineup to the plane. I wish I could delay the son's departure by more than just one person's space in line.

A woman in front of me asked another soldier if he was going to Iraq. He answered in the affirmative, and she thanked him for being brave and asked if she could pray for him. So they prayed in front of me, and the father and son embraced behind me, and I stood in the middle and tried not to cry.

On the plane I sat next to another soldier. He listened to his ipod the whole flight, Dave Matthew's band. He looked so young. We didn't talk.

Now. How not to behave.

Four hours and 17 minutes. That's how long the flight from Atlanta to San Francisco is scheduled to last. Doesn't sound very long, but I knew before we even took off that I would feel every second of that time.

For a brief, shining moment, I thought I had the pair of seats to myself. Tragically, it was not to be. My seatmate headed towards me, knapsack in tow, with it's two neoprene bottles of whatever he was drinking, neck pillow, extra flannel shirts, plastic grocery bag, and headphones in tow. He was easily over 50, but obviously didn't know it. He sat down and started looking around. You know that kind of looking around in your seat where you turn around and invade the space of the person you're sitting next to? Yeah, a lot of that.

"This is a big plane".

Yeah, so?

"You from Atlanta?"

"No. Canada." My policy on planes is to curtly but politely answer whatever questions, and ask none of my own, thus sending an unmistakable "I don't want to talk" signal. Not to this guy.

"I'm from San Francisco". No shit. "Where in Canada are you from?"

"Toronto".

"Oh. Is that across from Detroit?"

"No, more like across from Buffalo."

"I thought it was across from Detroit."

"No. Windsor is across from Detroit. It depends on which lake you're talking about."

"I've always wanted to go. Is it cold?" Please shut up. Please please please shut the fuck up?

"Only in the wintertime. The rest of the time it's beautiful."

"Is it colder than Montreal?"

"Um, no. Montreal colder." Take that Frenchies.

I put on my shuffle, and refocused on my book. Little did I know, the questions were the least of my problems.

This guy was a big sitter. For a moment he tried to raise the armrest between us - a big no-no in my books. That's my last line of defence when sitting with strangers. It keeps our thighs from touching. I don't want to touch someone I don't know. Fortunately he couldn't raise it immediately, and settled for just using the whole thing. Something I expect from men. But this guy turned out to be am armrest taking, leg spreading, seat back lowering, sprawling, foot space invading big fucking sitter.

Which is bad enough, until he pulls out an apple and bites into it like he's trying to punish it, spraying me in the process. He continues to eat this apple like it owes him money, chomping noisily, chewing sloppily, mouth open. I wearily check his progress occasionally, and am relieved when he finally throws away the core.

Until he pulls out a second apple.

Yes. Two apples for the plane. Just one apple would not satisfy this man. He must have two apples, and those apples must be eaten back to back. I notice he has a large salad in his bag as well and realize my trouble is just starting.

He pulls out his CD player and inserts a Best of Van Morrison CD, and proceeds to enjoy the shit out of his music. And for some reason, we all must know how much he enjoys it.

It starts off mildly annoying. His head starts to bob with increasing violence and he builds into a frenzy, punctuating a particularly good drum riff with his own large air drumming movements. Occasionally he will clap, grunt, and sing along. Worst of all, he seat dances. As this happens, I develop a serious grudge against Van Morrison. He's dead now, right?

Eventually, he decides to really make himself comfortable. He fumbles around with his sandals and finally kicks them off. I have a thing about feet. I hate them. Especially men's feet, mostly because they don't indulge in pedicures. Pedicures for men should be mandatory.

The foot goes up on the arm rest of the seat in front of us, and I am subjected to it's white crusty dry skin and gross toenails. I want to punch this man.

When he finally decides that its time to get some sleep, he puts one of his flannel shirts over his head and starts to snore. I am very tempted to start singing and seat dancing along with Jay Z on my shuffle. Instead I watch Hitch and try to appreciate the break.

He ate the salad with the same anger as his apples, and made the flight attendant give him a whole can of diet coke, no ice! UNOPENED!! Don't open it! Don't open it! Weirdo.

My joy at touching down in San Francisco was a complex and multi-leveled joy.

Until the pull-arm on my suitcase broke getting onto the SkyTrain. Fuckity fuck.