If it were not for the hangover I had, I would probably have been consumed with fear as I boarded the jet. It was another icy day in Connecticut and there was some concern that the flight might be delayed and my connecting schedule disrupted. I hated to fly. The thought of an air accident always lurks in my nightmares. It is not so much the thought of dying, but of being aware that I am dying, of falling for several minutes before the impact, that makes my knuckles white.

"Twenty four... that's right this way and you have an isle seat." The stewardess directed me to my seat - an isle seat no less. I hated to look out of the window and even more the feeling of being wedged between other passengers. Whoever made the ticket reservations had booked me on the same isle seats for each of the two flights to Fairbanks.

The plane was almost empty. Rows of empty seats separated the dozen or so passengers. I placed my carry on bag below the seat and was reminded of the red pin I had been instructed to wear. I fished it from my shirt pocket and clipped it to my lapel. This was certainly premature, but it was something to remind me that this trip was no vacation.

The flight to Chicago was routine. The weather cleared at O'Hare and new passengers came aboard for the next leg of the flight to Seattle. A young black woman with a briefcase approached me. "Excuse me. I guess I have the window seat."

"Sure. Sorry..." I removed my coat from the adjoining seat. For the next half hour the cabin was busy with the usual activities, the peanuts and crackers, and finally the beverage cart began to make its way down the isle.

"Are you going to Seattle?" I tried to make small talk with the woman. "Yes," she replied. At first I thought she was not wanting a conversation. There was an awkward silence. I was tired and started to close my eyes.

"Would you like a drink, coffee or tea or juice?" The stewardess addressed us and handed us both a napkin.

"Would you like some Khalua?"

"What? Khalua?" I was suddenly wide awake. The black woman smiled at me. "I was just looking at your pin there."

"We have some Khalua," the stewardess sorted through her collection of small bottles, "I could made you a Black Russian."

"No. Thanks, but no. Just some coffee with milk will be cool."

"I'll have a Black Russian." The woman laughed. "I love Khalua. Are you a bartender or liquor salesman or something?"

"You mean because of the pin? No. It's a long story. A weird one too. No, I'm a writer. I'm heading up to Alaska."

"Wow. Me too. Where in Alaska?"

"Fairbanks? And you?"

"Huh. Fairbanks. Wow. That's unusual. Ever been there before?"

"No."

"My husband is there. He's in the Navy and works up there. I live in Georgia - Atlanta - so I visit him all the time. I hate it there but he's got another year. I hope you brought some warm clothes and gloves."

The remainder of our flight was pleasant. We talked about computers, music and the usual small talk. Eventually we both were silent and resting our eyes as the pilot announced our impending arrival in Seattle.

As we gathered our effects and prepared to leave the plane I wished her a pleasant trip and joked that maybe I would run into her in Fairbanks.

"You have a safe trip. It was nice speaking with you, Dan."

As I made my way to the new gate, to board my next flight to Fairbanks, I realized that I did not know the black woman's name. We had never introduced ourselves - yet she knew my name. Then the fact that she had ordered a Black Russian seemed more significant. But was I just getting paranoid?