When I was a kid, I was a frequent “Unaccompanied Minor.” My parents, divorced and living in different states, often shuffled me back and forth between them. As early as age 6, I was flying on my own – and I’d easily earned my own captain’s wings by the time I was a teen.
While I’m sure my parents were sick with worry from the time I took off until the moment I was safely in their arms, as a kid, traveling alone was thrilling. It was the great unknown, I got tons of VIP treatment from the airline, flight attendants and other passengers, often got to see the cockpit and met other kids when making a connection. Between flights, motorized golf carts toted me from one gate to the other, and a kid-filled waiting room offered games, movies and new friends.
Every flight represented a little bit of freedom, and for a mischief-minded kid aged 6 to 16, freedom wasn’t too easy to come by. I would often create a persona for myself, complete with accent, and immerse myself in that role for the duration of my flight. Once I was a British orphan, traveling to see relatives after coming to the states during a break from boarding school. Another time I was the daughter of a southern belle and her plantation owner-husband (I had just seen Gone with the Wind for the first time). My accents often faltered and my stories could never withstand any real scrutiny from other passengers… but who cared? It’s not like I would ever see these people again!
Once landed, a pretty flight attendant would escort me off the tarmac to the loving arms of my relieved mom or dad – and I could go home safe, happy and with a few fun new stories to tell.
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