ybonesy of redRavine had a post the other day about seatmates on airlines. Toward the end, it reminded me of a coincidence that happened to me once, three years after I moved to San Francisco.
Many people know what it’s like to grow up in a small city or town dominated by one name — the industrialists or entrepreneurs who struck it rich and became famous, building the big house dominating town. For me it was the Mayo brothers, founders of the Clinic. In Rochester, Minnesota, if one refers to “the Clinic,” everyone knows what you’re talking about.
I went to Mayo High School. We had a Mayo Park, with oversized statues of the Mayo brothers and of their father, the Old Doctor — a very innovative surgeon in his own right. (The brothers’ success begins as they watch their father operate and learn. Not many going to med school have performed surgery before attending.)
As kids we swam at Soldiers Field pool, dedicated by Franklin Roosevelt, and I remember the photo of FDR and the Mayo brothers, top-hatted in the back of an open limousine.
Yet I never knew a Mayo.
The names of other prominent doctors had continued in Rochester, and I knew where Mayowood was, but by the time I left for college I had never met anyone of the Mayo family.
And then I made new friends in Minneapolis where for seven years I bounced around southeast, never living longer than nine months anywhere, and took classes and dated and had various jobs and even got a degree, too, before deciding to move to California with six of my friends. (I’m off to Phoenix to see one of them this weekend.)
But after moving out here, and rattling around from Palm Springs to Berkeley to SF for a year before I finally found a place that stuck (and began accumulating stuff) I did not go back to Minnesota for over three years.
All of my friends did. Even the one born in Sacramento. But somehow home wasn’t a top priority at first, until finally I arranged a vacation and a rental car and went back, driving all over the state, to the farms in the west where my parent’s families lived, and up along the north shore and to the Twin Cities and down to Rochester, too.
It was great fun, and after two and a half weeks I got on a plane to fly back to SFO. I didn’t talk much, at first, to the elderly woman next to me. I think because of the greyhound busrides, while I was in college. I’d been trapped by chatty people a few times, so my defenses were up.
I was polite, but I got a book out. Still somewhere over Utah or so, she asked me a question and in talking to her it was apparent she could actually converse (as opposed to starting a monologue about her nephew who worked in the meat-packing plant–not Burt, the one who made Vienna sausages, but Mort, who canned spam and had the lumbago) and we had a delightful time.
We talked about travel and the places we had been and it was easy and nice. As we approached the bay area she asked where I was from and I said Rochester, to which she replied, “oh, my family is from there.”
She was a Mayo. She spoke of what it was like to visit Rochester as a sort of celebrity, due to her family name, and I had the sense she would rather not put up with the rigmarole. She lived in the East Bay somewhere, I believe. And so we wished each other the best, and de-planed, and I was back in San Francisco, which is my second home.
It provided a fitting finishing touch, for me, almost an unspoken validation. I had lived in Rochester so long, through my childhood and young adulthood, knowing only the Mayo name but none of the people. And now after moving away I met one out here. We were even neighbors, of a sort. Yet we had both been “home” too — both places were special to us.
I’d finally met someone of my town’s most famous family — and it happened in such an ordinary, everyday way. I was amused to think our compasses had been aligned, while on separate tracks.
What a cool story. And that you really didn’t get to the part about who each of you was until the end of the plane ride.
She seemed nonchalant about her family fame, didn’t she. Quite classy in that respect.
BTW, I love your description of Greyhound busmates. I take it that was based on a true-life case, else it wouldn’t have sounded so darned real (Mort, who canned spam and had the lumbago–LOL!).
I agree — a very cool story. Even meeting a Mayo at all would have been a story, but when you are from Rochester… a nice way for the meeting to happen.
Hey, yb, the Greyhound ride from Minneapolis to Rochester as only about 90 miles, but I still got caught often enough that I learned to have a book ready.
The thing I have to watch against is closing myself off sometimes; not being too ready to put up a wall.
pmousse yeah, since then I’ve found myself wondering about the rest of her life’s arc.
I feel like I should write “Dateline: Phoenix”
The flight here last night was tough–an immense woman next to me, more concerned with giving the guy on the aisle room than me. I had the window seat and she sat in the middle. As I am a lefty and was trying to jot down some things, it made coordinating our elbows — interesting. Plus, the US Airways plane had a fold-down tray that was filthy — they gave me a damp paper towel that didn’t work and then a sani-wipe that barely removed some of the grim. I’m just happy to have arrived.
The desert is eye-opening; landscaping here is of the prickly kind. I lived once in palm springs (briefly) and had deja vu this morning when I stepped out into the warm desert air.
Off to Flagstaff soon, hope you all have good weekends.
This is a cool story about connections and how small the world is. How ironic to finally meet a Mayo way out of state, and actually have a conversation. I like your e-scrapbook posts. And not just because a lot of them are about Minnesota. 8)
I agree with everyone else. This is a cool story. It’s funny how things work out sometimes.
Thanks, all, for the cool kudos. Robin, when there are so many things in life that don’t work out, do you think it heightens some appreciation of the moments that do?
QM, yes, you’re right about that. I guess being “inside” the story or having lived it, I focus just on teling it. But it would be different if there were an event of some kind and she were up on a rostrum or whatever — meeting her on a plane and having had a conversation does give it a good twist — levels things out, somehow.
Re: immense travelling seatmates: Something that my American colleagues have said to me about flying in Canada as opposed to the States is how much more room they seem to have because people in general are thinner (flying Canadians anyway). Always thought whatever difference in weight averages between the countries had washed out by now but they swear its a real difference.
One of them is quite petite and we’ve bandied about the idea of being charged by weight. If you are small you could take more luggage. Such a policy could lead to weight loss before travel clinics, like being a boxer for a weigh in, and then buffets on the landing end.
Quite an interesting tale. You never know what, or who, is around the next corner.
Having an evil seatmate on the trans-Pacific flight is a little piece of hell. I think the attendants should pass out Valium or flood the cabin with sedative gas.
Hmmm, I’ve met some interesting people and my fair share of crazies on long-haul flights. So I appreciate the dilemma of “To Use the Book Barrier or Not to Use the Book Barrier”.
Let’s face it, if they’re fully chatty nuts then just having a book isn’t going to stop them – people like that don’t consider reading a genuine activity so they’ll talk over and round it. Nor will pretending not to speak the language – they just speak louder and more slowly at you.
But as you illustrate with this post – amongst the dross there is sometimes a gem, worth hearing a few lumbago stories!
I think that’s likely, Ombudsben. Without that contrast, how would you know the difference? But I also believe that things tend to balance out eventually. Or so my experience has been.
Hmmm….now that I think about it some more, perhaps it only seems to balance out because of the heightened appreciation of when things do work out well.
I guess it doesn’t matter whether or not it’s true it balances out, as long as my perception is that it does since perception sets the tone for my reality.
aos: Flying Canadians are thinner?!?!
Kiss my abs of steel, buddy!
Stevo, OMG. When I think of that flight to Phoenix, with the morbidly obese seatmate, the black grunge stuck to the traytop (nothing cleaned it off) and then I think of flying halfway around the world instead (I do NOT fly well) the horror, the horror …
Not to dwell or obsess or anything, but I boarded after my seatmates, and as I was sliding into my seat and my pack under the seat in front of me, she quickly slid in, I think so I couldn’t put the chair arm down between us. So she very much, umm, relaxed or oozed over onto my seat. (‘It’s only two hours,’ think I, ‘only two hours’) and it really was the cramped elbow penmanship that proved most annoying.
Did I mention that she was from Saskatoon?
Truce, I’ve got no problem telling that sort that I want to read, and beyond that getting irritable if they don’t take a hint. (WTF, I’ll never see ’em again.) That sort aside, I think the trick is gradually sussing out the degree of mutual interest. But even if the person seems interesting, I like to take a break for a bit, you know? Read a bit, then maybe pursue a further chat. Maybe I’m just cautious.
I did meet a woman on an Amtrak train once, out of Chicago, and we did the long-distance date thing for a while. And that time I showed up at the dinnertable (where they seat strangers together at the same 4-top) with a book –but the other 3 chatted, so I found out what we had in common.
Robin, this may be another way of saying you have to kiss a few frogs …
aos, actually, I really like your idea of a weight limit / luggage trade off.
The first time I ever went up in a plane, as a kid, it was a “penny a pound” deal — maybe something like 3 cents a pound then, or some such. They weighed us, we paid by weight, then we got in a small plane to fly around Rochester, MN for a bit.
But I do like your idea of getting a certain number of pounds per ticket — and thus more luggage, if you want. Maybe they could penalize those that go over; you already do have to pay more for extra luggage.
I suspect it would get lots of media play — who knows, it might be incentive for some to lose weight.
But don’t you think the Canadians would complain about being unfairly taxed this way?
I’m also usually a ‘keep to myself’ person when I am stuck on a bus,train, plane next to people I don’t know. But the last time I went to Winnipeg to see my family (flying there from Toronto) I had quite a lovely experience.
Well, it all started while I was in the queue to board the plane and I saw a woman still seated in the waiting area, trying to coax her guide dog (a beautiful chocolate lab) to move. So I got out of the queue and asked her if I could be of any help. And she told me that her dog was getting quite old and didn’t like flying anymore, but between the two of us we finally got her up and moving. And I asked at the boarding check in desk if I could have my seat changed so I could sit next to my new-found friends … no problem.
And it was the most pleasant flight I’ve ever had (I’m usually quite afraid of flying – but I wasn’t as afraid as the dog so this gave me some much-needed distraction). Also, the woman turned out to be quite a renowned lawyer in Canada who worked for women’s rights and so had to travel a lot. And so the conversation was both lively and interesting during the flight, well, when we both weren’t fussing over the dog. And we stayed in touch by email for awhile after that, and I heard about her getting a new dog and how the old one was allowed to retire and live a happy life with the family, no longer required to work. So sometimes talking to total strangers can really be something quite special.
Re: overweight passengers. Gaaaa! I remember once flying from Toronto to Paris and there was an enormous man in the seat next to me, taking up all of his seat and half of mine and I couldn’t imagine spending eight hours like that. To cut a long story short, I ended up being moved up to First Class – ha. Squeaky wheel, that’s me! 🙂
Az., what a wonderful story, re the Canadian attorney. I dislike flying too, and can see how a dog could provide welcome distraction.
And re getting moved to first class: D’oh! Way to urn a bad situation into a bonus; lemons into lemonade, as it were!
The part about burt, who makes vienna sausages, not mort with the lumbago made me giggle.
As to the chance encounter… *What* a coinkydink!