There is some­thing about planes. Just some­thing. They’re safe, really for the most part, any fear is a prod­uct of our own imaginations.

But on a plane we are all trapped into the metal­lic illu­sion of tragic trans­port. On a plane, the best-case sce­nario is a swift end. There are no lifeboats, no airbags. There is no chance.

That must be why peo­ple are so hon­est on air­planes. The time when a per­son is most hon­est is just before they die. Now, in these planes, we face a real, albeit real small, chance at death. With ease, like break­ing through misty clouds, the hon­esty comes out.

Private top­ics in pub­lic places with com­plete strangers fill the fuse­lage and ears plugged with alti­tude listen.

All of this hon­esty, alco­hol not needed, is unique to air travel. Bus rides and cruise ships don’t see this same hon­esty. Any con­ver­sa­tion that takes place is the arti­fi­cial space filler that is only nec­es­sary due to the environment.

Perceptions on these flights are not what they seem to be. The long­haired, leather-skinned or busi­ness suits with exhausted neck­ties aren’t the same in the office chair as they are in an aisle seat.

Stocks and bonds, med­ica­tion, mar­ried life and kids are all more impor­tant than the weather out­side or the wait until peanuts are dis­trib­uted. Both of them could be any­one, suc­cess­ful trial attor­ney next to poor col­lege stu­dent dis­cussing the role of Facebook in the world.

And they are sit­ting next to each other, and find­ing some con­nec­tion. They share in one another’s honesty.

And they hope the flight ends soon, but as planned. Landing. n