As it sometimes happens, I was seated next to an especially chatty man on my flight from Seattle to Salt Lake City. At the end of the flight he leans over and asks me if he had talked my ear off. I shook my head no, even though technically he had, as I secretly enjoyed the craziness of his life story. For starters, I learned he was a Mormon missionary in Chile during a hostile political coup in 1972. He saw trucks full of dead bodies and even participated in a revolt. One of his daughters was kidnapped, while another daughter had beaten Lymphoma cancer and she, along with the rest of her siblings - four sisters and one brother - ran a marathon in Ireland which raised $26,000 to aid in fighting the disease. Once the plane landed and we parted ways, he turned to me and said, "You come visit me and my wife in southern Utah now! I know ya'd like her. She talks to trees and reads books just like you." We laughed and resumed our diverging destinations.
I'm currently in the middle of a three hour layover. A young woman with long iron curled hair, a buckskinleather jacket and high heels is sitting next to me. She is fumbling through her bag, uttering words of frustration in a manner and volume that suggests an invitation to curious enough onlookers to engage her in conversation. My hunch was confirmed when my simply looking in her direction was all the opening she needed in order to share the following unsolicited information with me. She explains how she failed to bring the correct charging cord, and that one of her nails, "which I just got done yesterday," chipped. I reply, "Wow. Sounds pretty rough?" in an attempt diffuse her razzed state. Instead, she pauses, fixes me with a curious, sideways look, not dissimilar from an excitedly attentive though unsure dog, and says, "Yeah, it's because of manicurist incompetence."