Forty Years By Susan Surman
The Meeting: At the Larnaca Airport in Cyprus, Greece, I never heard the call to board. Some instinct made me ask the lady sitting next to me if she was waiting for the flight to London. “No,” she said in broken English, but how you can break up a one syllable word has always baffled me. Anyway, I made a dash for it. In a fraught and harried state, I was the last one to board. The plane was only about a quarter full. Who was going to England in July? My seat was in the non-smoking section – 17A. No one in front of me or next to me. Lucky me. A quick assessment of my surrounding fellow passengers: Couples, families, and across the aisle, a young man not dressed like a tourist or holiday maker got my attention. Smoking section – 17F. No one in front of him or next to him. he appeared to be self-contained. I decided he was a journalist or maybe a photographer. What a solid looking chap. How do you get to meet them like that? Suddenly, the plane lurched – it always happens right after you have eaten. Turbulence! The seat belt sign went on. I looked across at the young man. I was scared and needed reassurance. He was calm and must have sensed me looking over at him because he turned his head and our eyes met. “Is it going to be alright?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. We chatted. He invited me over to his section where we talked and never noticed the turbulence had subsided. I learned he was Scottish and had been to Cyprus to visit the places where he spent his childhood. His father had been an officer in the British Army. 32
