Alienation at 30,000 Feet

Last spring, after not flying for a year, I boarded a plane for New York City from my home in Montana. Shortly after takeoff, I raised the shade on the window beside my seat to gaze down at the landscape. I’ve done this with plane windows since a flight in childhood, when I was able to spot a highway bridge near the small town where I lived.

“Can you slide that down?” said the passenger beside me, speaking through his mask. I looked at him, confused by his request, because it was 11 in the morning, not an hour when most passengers wish to catch a nap. “The glare,” he said by way of explanation. He nodded at his phone, on whose screen was a game featuring animal characters, then gestured toward the seats in front of us. I saw then that mine was the only window shade open in our section of the cabin, a long, dim, tubular chamber of human galley slaves apparently chained to their devices.

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