Missoula News

Plane Talk

Fireworks, Real Estate, Frogs and Famous Football Players: All in a Morning’s Flight

By Kate Downen, 7-05-06

It was way too early in the day to be talking, but listening, especially in the close confines of the airport gate and jam-packed airplane, was unavoidable.

My 7:40 flight out of Glacier Park International Airport was sold out. The gate agent began offering the standard $400-flight, usable for up to one year, and by the time we were boarding, she'd upped the ante to "breakfast, lunch, dinner, and $400 flight to anywhere in the U.S....please?"

A woman standing at the gate with her two children announced over her shoulder to her travel friends, "they're paying for hotel too, so we're staying until tomorrow. I'm fine with it-- we get another day in Montana!"

I sat down in a haze, waiting to board. A couple in their early 50s sat behind me. "Blah blah blah blah yadda yadda DON'T LOVE yadda yadda blah SIGN PAPERS..." I tuned in. Both spoke in serious tones; something crucial was about to be decided. Wasn't it too early to be talking about something like divorce? And at the airport? I hadn't had a drop of coffee. These people were too ambitious.

Ahh, but no. I concentrated, perked my ears. I knew divorce was not on today's docket. The matter at hand was almost as serious: real estate.

HIM: ...well, if we can do this, that basically leaves the Snowmass house in limbo...
HER: ...well...it's just...it's just that...
HIM: I know. I know, Honey. There's no way this compares to the 4th of July parade in Aspen.
HER: ...
HIM: ...
HER: Well, do you think it would even be a good investment?

Her voice was starting to whine. I was beginning to dislike her.

HIM: Well, I think so. I do. But I don't want to have this tied around my neck.
HER: ...
HIM: ...and you wouldn't socialize as much here as in Aspen...

The loudspeaker, thank god, came on to tear me away from this guilty listening pleasure. More pleading from the gate agent to give up seats and wait it out in the Flathead. A couple more takers.

I was on the plane then; crammed into a window seat. The man I'm sitting next to asks where I'm going. The south of France, for a wedding, I tell him. "I hope you have a better time in France than I did a month ago," he says. I say, "I do too."

He tells me a story about a one-day layover in Paris involving an un-air conditoned room that was supposed to overlook the Louvre but instead had view of a garbage-filled alley. He tells me how three Frenchmen walked into the room at 4:00 A.M. when his family was sleeping because the hotel double-booked. "Those French, they're different people," he said. Out of the wrong person's mouth, that might have annoyed me. But I didn't care. I may have been too tired to be defensive. Plus, I liked him. He was dry and funny. And I didn't have to talk back much, which suited me just perfectly.

"Do you live here?" he asked.
"I do."
"So what do you do?"
"I work in economic development."
"Really. Well you're doing a good job."
"Thanks."

He told me he was from Tallahassee, that he and his family spent around 50 days a year in the Valley. They're trying to come up more often. He didn't tell me his name or the locale of his family's summer home. My friend Mary would have told me that his name doesn't matter anyway; she's sure that the new people with money in Whitefish, the ones who ski all winter and lounge on their decks all summer, are in the Witness Protection Program. I suppose we've all got our theories and idiosyncracies. I used to have a toenail collection. Who am I to be pointing fingers. Besides, this guy did kind of look like a Mr. Smith.

Landing time. The woman in the seat in front of me is loud. Really loud. She's talking to the guy next to her but she wants everyone to hear her. She turns the other way and asks her son, "What's his name again?" "Drew Bledsoe," her son says. She turns back to the guy sitting next to her: "Yeah. So Drew Beldsoe dropped like 30 Gs on fireworks last night since Whitefish's fireworks were canceled this year."

Once, when I was working as a lifty at Big Mountain, I met Drew Bledsoe and his dad. They were pretty nice, I think. I can't really remember. Everyone seems the same in a hat and goggles.

The door opened. I pulled my bag from under the seat, straightened my shoulders and walked out the door to start my trip.

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