In the Summer of 1987, I was a broke-ass college graduate who was about to become an even broker-ass graduate student. I had some money in the bank, and I knew that I wasn’t getting any younger, so when an English friend asked me if I’d like to fly home with her, I jumped at the chance.
We had a Row 50ish window and aisle seat on a BA747, flying MIA/LHR. Not ritzy, but not bad either. Pre-9/11 international travel was good stuff, with food and ample free drinks. I was ready to go, seated on the aisle, and dreaming about the verdant English countryside. (Nah, that’s just BS. I was hoping that my friend, who would never be “more than a friend” would maybe become “more than a friend.”)
“I can’t sit in the middle.”
I look up and see this (attractive?) young woman, holding her ticket, puzzled because I am in her seat.
I pull out my ticket, and we compare them.
Yup, same row, same seat.
Before I can call the stewardess, my friend says that I should just sit in the middle. You know, be a gentleman.