Ask the pilot

The view from the window seat: Readers share their own flight stories, and the pilot explains why the aisle is anathema.

By Patrick Smith

Jan 23, 2004 | Back during the holidays when I solicited appreciation-of-flight submissions, I wasn't sure what to expect. Turns out many people had fun with my pitch.

If the submissions revealed any consistency, it was a curious and old-fashioned fixation. Observations on airport architecture, in-flight service and the aesthetics of airliners -- all things I'd written about in recent weeks -- were few and far between. Colorful eyewitness accounts of landscapes, sunsets and mountain ranges, on the other hand, were rampant. The view. In a return to that little kid within, it was out the window that most of you were looking.

On a typical 747 with room for 400 passengers, a mere quarter of them will be lucky enough, if indeed that's the operative word, to be stationed at a window. In a 10-abreast block, only two seats come with a view. If flying has lost the ability to touch our hearts and minds, perhaps that's why: There's nothing to see anymore.

My first airplane ride -- an American Airlines 727 -- was a hop from Boston to Washington in the spring of 1974. What I remember most clearly, even more than the double servings of sandwiches and cheesecake, is the view -- Manhattan from 30,000 feet; the snaky brown marshlands of Chesapeake Bay; the landmarks of D.C. as we banked along the Potomac.

It's a rite of passage, maybe, when we suddenly stop caring where we sit. For me there came a time when, checking in, it no longer struck me as blasphemous to hear the agent query, "window or aisle?" Prior to this moment, if my boarding card wasn't suffixed with an "A" I was ready to cry.

There's something instinctually comforting about sitting at the window -- a desire for orientation. Which way am I going? Has the sun risen or set yet? For us lovers of air travel, of course, it's more than that. To this day, the window is always my preference, even on the longest and most crowded flight. What I observe through the glass extends beyond the plane ride to the journey in whole -- no less a sensory moment, potentially, than what I might experience sightseeing later on. Flying to Istanbul, I remember the ship-clogged Bosporus from 10,000 feet as vividly as standing before the Blue Mosque or the Hagia Sofia.

Am I off? Here's what a few of you had to say (I've edited for clarity and in some cases changed the tenses):

"During takeoff, my toes curl with excitement. I always look out the window to see the houses, cars, and trees getting smaller and smaller. After the plane levels off, I'll start reading, but every once in a while I'll look out the window and check where I am with the map on the movie screen. Last January, on a flight from Buenos Aires to Madrid, I couldn't sleep very well and so got the chance to see some specks of light off to the right side, which the map told me were cities on the west coast of Africa. Even now at 20 years old I still love the act of traveling more than the trip itself."

-- Maria Fanucchi, Buenos Aires

"I always notice the make of the plane I am flying, and the view outside. In recent years there have been some moments I'll never forget. These make up for the long lines, short tempers, and squashed elbows: circling Alcatraz on approach to Oakland; passing the beautiful Spring Mountains on approach to Las Vegas; the San Diego skyline; the pampas of central Mexico at sunset; the beautiful blue beetle I watched crawl across an airport tarmac."

-- Pedro Vazquez, Las Vegas

"I was on a flight from Cleveland back home to Madison and had my digital camera at the window the whole time. Passengers were giving me the usual annoyed looks because I actually enjoy flying and have the nerve to take pictures. Somewhere over Lake Michigan, the guy across the aisle taps me on the shoulder and says, 'There's a plane out my window if you want a good shot.' Then the other people dropped their books, opened their shades, and seemed to actually be looking."

-- Patrick Weeden, Madison, Wis.

"I was flying from Amsterdam to San Francisco. Over the North Atlantic, between the U.K. and Iceland, the sky cleared and I saw the blue. The bright, clear sky blue -- same shade as the KLM livery. It was beautiful. I thought of your column's challenge and smiled. (I also forgave KLM for using such a searing shade of blue for their attendants' uniforms.)"

-- Laura La Gassa, San Francisco

"When you approach Ft. Lauderdale, to the right you see that mess of sprawl and, to the left, the ocean. If you squint, you can imagine the Gulf Stream. You head along I-595 and make a U-turn east of the Everglades. I'm always relieved to be in my home swamp. I love to see my home swamp. I grew up hunting and fishing there, swimming in sloughs."

-- Michelle, Kensington, Md.

"Last month I flew to Copenhagen. While the rest of the passengers slept with their window shades closed, I was mesmerized by the view: Iceland's south coast at dawn. To have studied and practiced geology and archaeology all of my life and to finally see the island was thrilling. Tough to be a grown-up and not be able to run up and down the aisles shouting, 'Wake up! Look outside!'"

-- -- Bonnie Bagley, Corrales, N.M.

Next Page: The greatest view of all is a quartz porcupine?

• View blog reactions