Phone went west

It's the most peaceful feeling I know - sitting on a nighttime flight, cruising tens of thousands of feet above where man was intended to wander. The monotony of engine noise, the symmetrical seating arrangements, the cheap but welcome paper-thin blankets and pillows, the comfort in forgetting worries that are literally far beneath you, the silence. This was the ideal way to kickoff a short but memorable first trip out to Colorado.

Hiking up along the Mesa Trail, I tried to remember the last time I was alone like this, free to have some "reflection time." Not the ersatz feelings evoked by iPod submersion on the train, or an hour with Kundera on the park bench, but the immediately noticeable feeling that it's just you plus walking shoes, and no one in sight.

My friend K.'s wedding was cradled by verdant Littleton mountains, where we were accompanied by galloping horses nearby, rabbits chewing up the lawn, and a falcon who swooped in gallantly for a better view. New Yorkers like to fool themselves that they maintain a sense of the outdoors (Central Park, the Hamptons) and are in touch with everything that matters in the world (since we have "everything" here). Colorado says, "Bullshit."

Sitting on the bride's somewhat quieter side, at the end of a row with no one in the four chairs to my right, this was a different kind of alone - the kind that you usually hope no one notices too much. But I didn't mind this either; knowing only the girl whose big day it was, I felt like a mysterious, yet benign visitor, towing my own little secret of how I knew K. and why I was invited. But a pale, skinny, pretty girl interrupted my serene moment of solitude and asked for the seat nearest mine. Quiet, pleasant enough, and clearly smart, she actually made for an appropriate conversation partner: my age, a slightly frustrated surgery resident in Little Rock, she was instantly attractive as a fellow outcast of a guest. I held my wine glass more than sipped from it, listened with a well-behaved, serious face. But by the time the first dance was underway, the frequency with which she used the word "shit" - placed just often enough to feel artificial, a calculated measure to certify a certain irreverance, and an off-putting habit for a 25-year-old stranger - made me slightly miss the seat's former emptiness.

The dinner plate typically draws my most passionate attention at weddings, and while the food was delicious, my newest neighbor (though obviously placed there with intention by bride and groom) inspired unusual curiosity after just a few minutes. Clearly guarded, but spunky and kind enough, she too stood out amid the otherwise cookie-cutter crowd. Slight discomfort mixed with apparent enjoyment is a strange combination, but it was at least partially explained by other guests' comments whenever she got up and left the room. None were truly spiteful, but they were colorful enough to make this seem like a bad TV afternoon special, except that when it happens off the screen, you know people aren't caricatures and are often far more interesting than first impressions convey. Ironically, a moment when I was privy to the inner chatterings of a small collective of friends was the only one in which I felt uncomfortably alone.

The midnight drive to catch the plane home was not marred in the slightest by the ghostly lingerings of the celebratory champagne's effects, or the three toll stops. My last few moments of solo time seemed too valuable. M. Ward's new record nearly drowned out Ms. NeverLost's monotonous voice, but there was really no way I was getting lost. If just over twenty-four hours of complete peace were any indication, missing my flight couldn't be that bad, blankets and pillows or not.