When I was younger, I traveled a great deal. My mother remarried after she and my father divorced, and we relocated to Michigan with my new stepfather. Every summer, and alternating holidays, I would fly to the other side of the country – California – to visit my father, my stepmother, and my half sister. It was an adventure I looked forward to every season.

My mother would dress me up in a brand new summer dress, with black patented leather shoes and frilly white socks. Upon arrival at the departure gate, I would walk proudly to the head of the line, where the gate attendant would hand me a shiny new pin of plastic airline wings and a red and white-striped badge with my name printed on it, stating that I was a “traveling minor”. After hugging my mother goodbye, the attendant would walk me down the long corridor to the entrance of the plane, where she would announce that I was traveling alone, and lead me to my window seat.

My anticipation was great, and I couldn’t wait to get off the ground. As I peered out the window, over the plane’s enormous wing, baggage handlers would run to and fro, preparing the flight for takeoff. I’d watch intently to see if I could spot my luggage being tossed into the storage belly of the plane. As we slowly backed away from the gate, I secretly hoped that a discombobulated baggage handler had mistakenly left someone’s bag on the ground, and as the plane rolled over it, we’d get to see what private items someone had packed – shorts, sandals, unmentionables, an expensive camera now fragmented into unrecognizable pieces, the only memories of someone’s recent vacation. Distraught from the mistake, the baggage handler would throw himself under one of the plane’s tires, unable to face the wrath of a manager or angry flyer. Now that would be some good airport drama!

Once the plane took off, the flight attendants would bring me notepads and pens, decks of cards, unlimited pop and pretzels. They’d say to me, “Just let us know if you need anything!” and I, wearing my invisible tiara, would smile at the thought of so many people at my beckoned call. I was the princess of the plane!

On occasion, I’d be asked if I was interested in seeing the cockpit. “Of course,” I would answer with glee, bounding from my chair restraints. Skipping down the aisle to the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot would smile back at me, and the other “traveling minors” while explaining what this instrument and this instrument did. Ah, the mysteries of commercial flight.