Journey: An overnight long haul flight.
The scene: A fairly busy economy class cabin.
Describe your fellow traveller: Smart, youngish guy, around 35 or so, sitting next to me in a two-seat row in at the bulkhead.
The review: We exchange basic nodding and hellos as he sits down, and then both of us just read until the dinner service. Here he orders two bottles of wine, and I order one and he opens his and offers a cheers. I cheers him back. He asks me how my trip to Japan was and I give him a few basic details and then he LAUNCHES into his life story, how he'd lived there a year as teacher, fallen in love and moved his life there and then got engaged and then she left him just as they were making plans to get married, all the while getting more frantic and polishing off his wine and ordering more, and a brandy after the food and I'm just nodding and trying to be as sympathetic as I can to someone I don't know. He's pretty distraught by the end, and ordering more booze ("Have YOU ever been in love? (no pause for me to answer) It's like TORTURE, pure TORTURE...") as he finishes each drink. He then necks a couple of sleeping pills (politely offering me one) and then tells me "This is all sure to put me right to sleep, and I really need that certainty. Job interview tomorrow, if I don't get some shut-eye, I'm done for." I see him put his eye mask on and I read for a bit and slowly drift off myself. I wake up a few hours later, and we're beginning our decent. I look over, and what looks like a cadaver is staring back at me, glass of wine in hand. "I couldn't sleep," he informs me testily. "That baby across the aisle kept me wide awake ALL NIGHT. All the drink and all the sleeping pills I took...now I just feel...like death." I squint to look over at a baby some ways away. I can't really imagine how he must feel. "I'm SO, SO TIRED," he moans (I could have guessed that part perhaps). And with that he sinks into an open-eyed coma of some kind as we head to grey, unforgiving London and I hide behind a magazine.
Verdict: Not really annoying and some of his chat was amusing but the pills-alcohol-sleep gamble failed pretty miserably. Plus, you know, life ruined and stuff. I just hope he was OK.
Rating: A sympathetic 3/5.

My dogs are barkin' today...

Journey: A domestic layover at ORD.
The scene: I'm waiting in a small queue to put my things through the x-ray machine at security.
Describe your fellow traveller: A harassed-looking and apparently late John Cusak.
The review: First of all, I'm just putting my things into the trays when some guy cuts in line. I look up, do a slight double take and see it's Hollywood's John Cusak. I like many of his films and he looks inordinately stressed out so I decide to let him go on through. He only has  a small bag, which security pick up on and take a small bottle out of. It's green liquid, just over the regulation size. Security say they'll have to confiscate the bottle. JC does not like this information. He's very late, and now he chooses to argue about the legality of a small bottle of green liquid. He says it's a special kind of shampoo. I have no reason to disbelieve this, but security is standing firm. JC has a choice between arguing for the merits of his irreplaceable shampoo OR heading to catch a flight he is already late for. he makes one more remedial attempt, pulling in all his actorly powers to try and convey how essential this bottle is. Sad to say, not even his hometown security guys can do much for him. He kind of pouts but he doesn't hit diva mode. He runs off into the terminal, shampooless until Hollywood.
Verdict: Minus points for star-jumping the queue, but he remained polite under some (self-inflicted) pressure.
Rating: 3/5

Journey details: A short haul flight.
The scene: It's the late afternoon. I get on and take my window seat.
Passenger description: Well, see for yourself.
The review: So, this grasshopper (?) was apparently living IN BETWEEN THE PANES OF GLASS in the window of the plane. Just to be clear: in between the tough plastic double glazing, which is supposedly air tight. There's no way in there, nothing to eat and no way out. These questions presented themselves: How did this insect get in there? Did it hatch from an egg inside the glass? How is it sustaining itself? How long has it been there? How is it breathing? I thought about these things for the 90-ish minutes of the flight, alerting neighbouring passengers and cabin crew to the stowaway. No-one had any idea how it could come to be there. I couldn't take my mind (or eyes) off it. It seemed happy enough. I don't know. It's hard to tell with insects.
Verdict: Baffling. Innocuous and sinister at the same time.
Rating: 3/5

Journey details: A short haul flight.
The scene: It's the mid morning. A small commuter plane. I'm sat next to the window in a two-seat row.
Passenger description:  A young guy, maybe early 20s, sits next to me.
The review: There followed one of the most random conversations of my life. Utterly charming at all times, He introduces himself as Willy. I respond with my name. Then he gets into it.

Willy: “Where do you live now?”

Me: “New Orleans sometimes, but I’m based in London.”

“London, England?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get Courvoisier there?”

“Er…what?”

“You know. Courvoisier cognac.”

“Oh. Yes. I think so.”

“Do they have brothels there?”

(I actually mishear this for “brothers”) “Er…what?”

“You know. With prostitutes.”

“Oh. Yes. I think there are some. They’re not legal, though.”

“How close are you to Amsterdam?”

“About a 45 minute flight.”

“They have them there, right?”

“I guess.”

“Do you have highways in London?”

“Um. Yes. We call them motorways.”

“Nice. Those brothels in Amsterdam are legal, right?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s decriminalised.”

“Yes. You got someone picking you up in London?”

“Er, no. I take public transport.”

“Man, you’ve got it aaaaaaaaaaaall worked out, haven’t you? All worked out. In advance.”

“Er, I guess so. I’ve done the journey a lot.”

“And you’ve been to Amsterdam?”

“A couple of times.”

“Man, you’ve got it aaaaaaaaaaaall worked out, haven’t you? Aaaaaaaaall worked out. I work for Wolfgang Puck.”

“Oh, that must be great.”

“Yeah. We got soups, pasta, burgers, salads, sandwiches, chicken salad, veggie pasta…(goes on to list what sounds like the full menu of a Wolfgang Puck outlet). You should try it some day.”

“I’ll try and do that.”

“Man. I’ve GOT to get me a plane ticket to Europe. What do you pay?”

“Well, it varies a lot depending on when you travel. It’s usually between…”

“I’m going to Amsterdam. For the Cour-vois-i-er. Man, you got it aaaaaaaaaall worked out, ain’t you?”

“Er…I…guess…”

"Oh yeah. Aaaaaaall worked out.

His curiosity sated and seemingly satisfied at how much I had things all worked out, he retreated into his magazine and didn’t speak the rest of the flight. Which was a shame. I had so many questions.

Verdict: Aaaaaaaaaall worked out.
Rating: 4/5