The lift off is always the worst part of flying. There's always got to be that moment, and you know the moment, right after you've rocketed down the runway at some speed, sure to get your license revoked were you to drive at such a velocity, and it's about the first moment that you know you're no longer entirely on the ground. About twenty feet in the air. That's the moment for me when it hits that I'm squeezed into a large metal tube, not unlike a large toothpaste tube, and that I should just as well accept that I'm a dead man. None of those seat belts or air masks or safety procedures would do a damn thing for me during a midair collision or a mechanical failure that might cause one of our giant metal birds to fall from the sky. I'd put my life in someone else's hands stepping aboard the plane and it's safe to say that that moment for me consists of panic, though once I've made peace and assured myself that an ample number of people would attend my wake, it'd be nothing but clear sky's the rest of the way. Unless… that is… you considered who I was seated next to.

Being the kind of guy I am, I always get the window seat. Flights over America are far too interesting to not study every detail. There are, however, people who are less than thrilled to be stuffed into a cattle stall-like seat in coach. Such a person was my isle mate on my flight back from Phoenix, Arizona. He didn't seem like a bad guy, he was probably even an upstanding citizen who drives at the speed limit and pays his taxes, but he was more that a little pissed off about our flight. The thing that I think bothered him the most was not that he was sitting on the aisle and that his elbows got hit every time the cart went by, which would have really sent me over the edge, but that sandwiched between he and I was a Mexican on his way to Chicago who didn't speak a word of English, not a single word, and nodded with a smile to everything said to him. It was true that the man had more than a touch of body odor and that he was also kind enough to share it around, not really ideal for such cramped quarters. But every once in a while the good Citizen would toss a look of disgust the way of the Mexican and a look of blame towards me as though I has bought the Mexican's ticket. To make matters worse for the Good Man, it seemed as though the flight was also the Mexican's first, so every five minutes in a burst of fear, anticipation, nervousness, or maybe even rage (I couldn't tell as my Spanish was limited to asking for the bathroom and ordering burritos) he would leap up and down in his seat reaching through the row in front of us to get the attention of his son and scream something in his native tongue. Although I, at first, found it to be amusing, thinking about my first cross country flight, I didn't want to imagine the whole three hour trip to follow the same formula and tried to say something.

"Hey man," I tried. I was from California and most everyone I knew spoke that way. "Can you settle down and sit back a little?" I received a very polite nod and a silent smile, but a general look of not understanding. "Yes?" Another nod and smile. I wasn't going to suddenly learn better Spanish during the flight and he wasn't going to pick up English, so I just settled back figuring that it was only going to last for three more hours. The same apparently didn't go through the Citizen's mind and prevent him from trying too.

"Can you sit back," he almost begged and was rewarded with the same results that I was. "Can you… sit back…," He tried again, slower. Another nod and a bigger smile. "Can you sit back and relax," he almost screamed. Other passengers were now starting to look at us. The smile faded some, but the nod was more forceful.

"Forget it man. He doesn't understand," I said to the citizen as the Mexican smiled and nodded at my words.

"Ah hell. Well…," he resigned. "Something needs to be done about the immigration in this country." The Mexican also seemed to agree.