When seated in the middle seat in the last row of a sardine can, um airplane, the forecast calls for an unpleasant, or at least physically tight flight.
Then again you could be traveling with a group of forty Italians.
Prior to departure, everyone switched seats at least once.
Once in the air, we posed with flight attendants.
We took pictures, in perhaps 300 of the different variations possible with forty people.
We blew up toys.
As many of us as physically possible, at one time, stood in the aisle and talked to each other and the few people not in aisle.
We all tried to stand on the left side of the plane at once.
We stood in the aisle and told jokes to the masses.
We shot video and interviewed lots passengers.
We exchanged LA tourist paraphernalia and magazines.
We sang songs during descent and burst into an Italian sports-like cheered at landing.
Who needs a movie when there are forty Italians on a plane.
And as that strange scene played, I talked to the armed FBI Agent next to me.
As flights go, it was the most random collection of stimuli.
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