I recently returned from a trip to Los Angeles, which turned out to be memorable for many reasons – not the least of which was the fact that what happened had me reconsidering the nature of friendship. Read my latest singles column, “Friends in High Places,” for more…

“Friends in High Places”
by Esther D. Kustanowitz
Some people really love traveling. They book tickets casually, pack efficiently, carry the smallest of bags onto the plane, zip through security unencumbered by computers or magazines or much of anything. Airport transportation is a simple call; tray tables in any position herald experiential potential. These people pull their luggage behind them fluidly, the Supermen and Superwomen of suitcases. They treat every moment as precious, as if something pivotal is about to change. Or perhaps they’re so used to it that they don’t even think about it anymore. In either case, for them, the preparation for and the process of traveling are effortless.

And then there’s me. I don’t really enjoy the act of traveling, especially by airplane. Part of the reason is psychological and emotional: at 30,000 feet —with a cultural memory flecked with plane crash footage (thank you, ABC’s “Lost”!) — a writer becomes more aware of her mortality than is probably healthy, and the anxiety can be a little overwhelming. Flying can also highlight my sense of loneliness — unlike everyone else, I have no one to lean on in the air. Add to that a mild condition (I’m fine, don’t worry) that can cause me to experience a flight-related loss of consciousness, and I don’t think anyone would really blame me for a fear of flying.

It feels like I’ve had 14 triple espressos in two hours; my skin crawls, like my nervous system is freaking out. That combines with a simmering bout of nausea and lightheadedness, and often a stomachache. I’m usually able to stave off an episode through a series of simple fixes: cold compresses on pulse points, drinking a nice big bottle of water, splashing cold water on my face … and all is well.

Let me assure you, this whole process is even more delightful when you’re alone, which I usually am. I tell you this not because I want you to feel sorry for me, but that’s just the fact of traveling single; even on business trips, I’m a freelancer, so I usually don’t travel with colleagues. Usually, I’m on my own.

This time, I wasn’t alone. Luckily, I had friends with me from New York, making sure I got what I needed. I was lucid and communicating. But our flight attendant was another story: God forbid Delta ever experiences a real emergency, because she was more than just not calm. She was out-of-control panicked, which made me believe that flight attendant school has made “calm under pressure” an optional personality trait.

This time, luckily, my friends were there. Still, this whole plane incident — a momentary loss of consciousness followed by my awakening to the panicked tones of a flight attendant screaming at me, “How old are you? How old are you? HOW OLD ARE YOU?,” punctuated by airsickness during the landing and carsickness on the way to Pico-Robertson (with special apologies to the lawn in front of the McDonald’s near LAX) — didn’t really instill a love in me for air travel. What I did love more than anything else was the two friends who had literally supported me during the whole day. I only worried that my glamorous image hadn’t been forever tarnished by my decidedly unglamorous sickness.

This isn’t exactly a recant of my last article, or an author’s correction. But with my last column, “Who Your Friends Are,” appearing in print the week of this supremely strange travel day, I thought a slight reframe might be appropriate.

Forced to recount for myself my various airplane incidents involving loss of consciousness whilst ascending into the heavens, I realized that in the worst cases, I hadn’t been alone: I’d been with family, friends, or even someone random I hadn’t seen in five years who happened to be on my plane and helped me find my bearings during a difficult flight. I’m reminded of one of the more literally uplifting Psalms: “I lift up my eyes to the mountains, whence cometh my help.”

No one can ever know where help will come from in times of duress. I still believe that people throw around the word “friend” too casually, which can often deny it the gravitas that it deserves. But even when we’re feeling lonely, there is often help from places both relied upon and unexpected, moments of found and spontaneous generosity that prove that we are all lucky to have the friends we have in our lives. Even when we feel ourselves starting to drift away, we all have angels who keep us grounded, healthy, resilient and human.

[This column is dedicated to the two special angels who were with me when I needed them and continue to provide support.]