OUT OF THE BLUE

From what I’ve noticed, the only remaining conundrum pertaining to air travel is whether a passenger should strike up a conversation with his or her seatmate. If yes, then when? And how? Are there age guidelines? What are the clues that the passenger wedged next to you will be receptive? Notice any body language? I’m assuming the punk rocker with tattoos and wild hair would leave a sweet old lady alone, but who knows? Odd couples happen.

I fly to see my grandsons in Canada three or four times a year. Because I’m old and have a bum knee I get to board first, then watch passengers head down the aisle. Will I get Sumo with T-shirt exposing bellybutton? Mother and fussy baby? Techie toting cellphone, tablet, Kindle, earbuds? Business guy pining for first class? Whatever — I nod, smile, then assume nap mode.

Last trip I encountered someone and something bordering surreal.

I had the window seat — hardly glanced at the woman who stopped to check her boarding pass. I smiled and fished out her safety belt buckle, which had fallen between the seats. I’m not sure how she started the conversation . . . probably, “Are you going home to Montreal?”

“No,” I explained, then shared the reason as I turned to look at her face, full-on. The woman, whose name I learned was Suzanne, was about 60 and uncommonly beautiful, the result of the very best skin, hair, nutrition, exercise and dental care. She lived in Philadelphia, was divorced, a retired RN with two grown daughters.

She asked what I (as a newspaper reporter) call smart questions. Decades ago, this woman would be labeled “well-bred.” Certainly “highly educated.’’

When the beverage cart stopped at our row, Suzanne asked for club soda, which the flight attendant didn’t have.

I asked the purpose of her trip, which proved to be an unusual relationship with a French engineer who worked in northern Quebec. They see each other for a month or two, several times a year, his place or hers.

Interesting. I saw how this arrangement could work for a mature couple, played by Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. For a title I purloined Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train, from the 1950s, when plot and character development mattered.

We spoke of family, travel, technology, aging, health, climate and, of course, politics. Suzanne (not her real name) brought up the subject, gingerly. I broke a self-imposed ban and took the bait.

I told her, a perfect stranger, about losing two children to bipolar disorder, something I rarely discuss. Of course I bragged about my grandsons. I don’t remember if she has any.

The flight from Philly to Montreal lasted an hour-and-a-half. We talked the whole way, connected on many points. I gave her my business card, said she was welcome to email. She offered no identification, not even her surname, which I hardly noticed at the time.

When I got home a friend chided me for revealing personal information to a perfect stranger. “Just wait,” my friend said. “And watch your financial statements. This sounds like a shakedown.”

I was appalled. Has the world become so cynical that random chit-chat becomes suspect? Must we apply “see something, say something” indiscriminately?

Sadly, yes, because these days trust has become a luxury if not a danger. These days children are gunned down at school and pedestrians run over on the sidewalk. And stealing an identity (which I’ve experienced) isn’t much harder than stealing an apple off a pushcart.

I’m beginning to sound like a Twilight Zone episode. However, if my cynical friend is right about the shakedown, then stop the world, I’m outta here.