My eyes scrolled down the monitor, searching for flight twenty-five, DTW to JFK. Failing to remember what gate the clerk had mentioned, I cursed myself. I was nothing if not punctual. Okay, 35B. I walked briskly, passing Lauren and her two kids as she chased them around outside the duty-free. Flying must suck for her. I hoped we weren’t on the same flight and then I immediately felt guilty for the thought. I decided I’d offer to help if she ended up on my flight, seated anywhere near me, but I’d much rather sleep.
I love flying. It’s an escape for me. There is nowhere to be; it’s surrendering to fate. Fate was always such hard concept for me to understand, but I bought into it when necessary, like on a plane or the subway. When I fly, I allow myself to believe in fate simply because it is too tedious to worry about whether or not the pilot is pouring whiskey in his coffee. I let everything go when I fly, just like when I play the piano. It’s the closest I get to religion; it’s the closest I get to faith.
I had no one to answer to for a couple of hours and I was looking forward to it. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about anything. I wouldn’t worry about what I would do with my father’s apartment, his belongings, the café, pretty much everything that was my father’s in New York. I would just get out there and continue living his life until I could figure out what to do with my own.
When my father had passed away a month before, I was devastated. Although I grew up in Ann Arbor, essentially raised by my mother, Liz, and stepfather, David, whom I referred to as Dad, I was still very close to my biological father. I spent summers in New York, helping out with his café, hanging with the then-bizarre East Village crowd. My father was the only child of Irish immigrants. His parents had given him every last penny to open “Ave. A Café” in the East Village in 1977, later to be renamed Kelly’s Café in ‘82 and then finally in ‘89 renamed again to just simply Kell’s. In the 70’s it would be the ultimate hangout for any troubadour and trobairitz alike. It was and remains a place with a liberal and artistic vibe, something my father exuded directly from his pores. It would be bittersweet to be back there.
I made it to my gate on time; there was no sign of Lauren. I breathed a sigh of relief and then I directed a brief request to the universe asking that it seat a tired antisocial traveler in the seat next to me. I boarded and found my seat quickly. I threw my bag in the overhead bin, sat down, and began my preflight ritual: super fuzzy socks on, ear buds in, Damien Rice on the iPod, travel pillow around the neck. I was ready. The window seat remained empty as the last few passengers came on board. I had a ridiculous grin on my face, prematurely thanking the universe for leaving the seat empty until I glanced up and saw this guy headed toward me. I have to admit, he was gorgeous, but as soon as I saw the guitar case, my stomach turned sour.
Oh no, please world, do not let this egoist, wannabe, probably smelly musician sit next to me.
As he approached he blurted out a breathy shout. “Hey!” Pausing, he looked right into my eyes—my soul—and said, “Do you want the window seat? It’s all yours if you do.”
“Huh? Uh, no thanks.” What the hell is this guy doing?
“I’m a terrible flier,” he said, hesitating. “Please, I need to be in the aisle, I’m sorry, do you mind? I’m Will, by the way…”
Moving to the window seat, I mumbled, “Yeah, fine, you can sit there. I’m Mia.” I stuck my hand up in a motionless wave, intentionally avoiding a handshake.
Don’t get me wrong, I love music; I live for it. I’m classically trained on the piano and I can hold my own on almost any instrument. Naturally, growing up in Ann Arbor, every kid played the freakin’ cello, but I had a knack for music in general, much of which I owed to my father. During the summers in New York, he exposed me to world music, rock and roll, blues, jazz, you name it, then I would go home and work on Rachmaninoff’s Opus 23 all winter long. Playing the piano the way I was taught, combined with the loose methods my father encouraged during those summers, always created this blend of discipline and revolution in my style. I tried to embrace the blend, but sometimes it felt like a conflict.