26 Sep It’s Beautiful Out There
I settled into my window seat on the plane with a happy sigh. Everything seemed to be going right—there was a perfect spot in the airport parking garage, no long lines at security, and the flight was on time. This was travel at its best.
The flight continued to board, and a few minutes later a young man scooted into the middle seat next to me, offering a polite “hello.” He wore a fedora, tilted slightly to the side. The takeoff was uneventful, and gradually, the hum of the airplane engine faded into the background as the cabin lights dimmed. Most passengers were either glued to their screens or lulled into the restless half-sleep of an early evening flight.
I was one of the awake ones, using the time to respond to emails and listen to music. Next to me, the young man in the middle seat sat quietly, seemingly content without the usual distractions. While most passengers were absorbed in their screens or drifting to sleep, he spent the flight with a notepad on his lap, occasionally gazing out at the dim cabin or casually glancing around, as if simply taking it all in. Occasionally, he reached into his backpack and rummaged through it, perhaps searching for a pen. Whatever he was looking for, he couldn’t seem to find.
When the captain announced we were beginning our descent, the flight attendants made their final pass through the cabin, collecting trash. I held out my crumpled granola bar wrapper and Starbucks cup, and the young man next to me helped pass them to the flight attendant’s waiting trash bag.
“You must travel a lot,” he said with a polite nod.
I smiled, inwardly pleased, assuming he had noticed my well-honed travel habits. I wondered if he had seen how efficiently I moved through security, or maybe how organized my backpack was, with everything in its place. I hadn’t missed a thing.
As I replayed my perfectly executed routine in my head, he spoke again, glancing in my direction.
“You know…” he started, pausing briefly. I looked up, expecting a compliment or perhaps a question about my travel strategies.
But instead, he quietly continued, “…this whole time, you haven’t lifted the window shade up. It’s really beautiful out there.” He gestured toward the open shade across the aisle.
I blinked, surprised. His words broke through my self-assured narrative in an instant. He wasn’t fascinated by my routine, my well thought out snacks, or my pre-flight preparations. He wasn’t complimenting me at all.
He was reminding me of something I had completely missed.
I turned slowly toward the window, realizing I hadn’t even considered taking a moment to lift the shade and look out—to pause and marvel at the world from above. I reached for it, pulling it up, and suddenly sunlight flooded in, revealing a stunning sky. Pink and orange from the setting sun stretched out over a sea of clouds, glowing as far as the eye could see.
The young man smiled softly, as if he had been waiting for this moment—for me to notice what I’d been overlooking.
“You’re right,” I said, taking in the view. “It is beautiful.”
Sometimes, it takes someone sitting right beside you to remind you you’ve been missing the view.