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

Journey: A short-haul flight.
The scene: I've been unexpectedly upgraded, so sitting in the front row of a small commuter jet.
Describe your fellow traveller:  A slightly disheveled 20-something man.
The review: It's around 9.30am and the guy just slumps into the seat next to me, sighing heavily.

"Everything OK?" I ask.

He looks sheepish. "Um, I guess. Man. This is the most expensive air ticket I've ever bought."

I encourage him to tell me more. He's been on a bachelor/stag weekend, and was due to be on a 7.30am flight back to Boston via Chicago that morning. After a predictably heavy night in New Orleans, he had managed to do the hard bit. Got up on time around 5.30am, hailed a cab, got to the airport and through security. At the gate, he decides to take a small nap. He wakes up at 8am, his plane long gone. Now, he needs to be in Boston that afternoon for a really important meeting. Trouble is, there's only one other seat leaving New Orleans that morning. It's the one he's in and it costs $1,200. The importance of making it to Boston is so great, however, that the guy has no choice. So his nap just cost him...$1,200.

I commiserate. He laughs. "I DID ALL THE HARD WORK!" At least he's seeing the funny side. Though he's probably still pretty drunk.

Verdict: Taking it all with impressive good humour.
Rating: 4/5

Journey: An 11 hour flight.
The scene: Back row of the plane, in the middle section, I'm in the aisle.
Describe your fellow traveller: Late 20's, East European-sounding girl sat with her friend, both chatting furiously.
The review: As we take off, she draws me into some conspiratorial chat about one of the cabin crew being slapdash with the customs forms, which seems like a good sign for a chatty flight, but when I offer my own conspiracy theory on why we are only allowed to wear BA-branded headphones until the plane levels out, she blanks me. Thus begins a Cold War that is to last several hours. I shut off diplomatic relations by putting on headphones, she and her friend hit the drinks trolly with full force, easily getting through six bottles of wine each before the meal service ends. My film over, I'm trying to sleep, as they get louder and more rowdy and my neighbour tries to contort herself into comfy positions in her seat, bashing me several times with her arm and spilling minor amounts of water on me in a brash move where she practically vaulted into the aisle over me. As she sits back down, she bashes me again. I'm near-delirious with fatigue and do an audible sigh coupled with a knowingly dramatic removal of my eye mask. She immediately turns and asks if she's pissing me off. I say she's being a bit jabby with her elbows and she apologises profusely, which ushers in a new period of entente cordiale. We begin to chat, find out we're catching the same connecting flight and the rest of the flight reaches new levels of friendliness, with me giving her recommendations for going out and even a vague agreement to get drinks later in the week. 
Verdict: A social rollercoaster in which the relationship redeemed itself, and was all the better for it.  
Rating: 4/5