A Window Seat, Please

The Best View of the World

Tiny towns, big thoughts.
No borders from where I sit—
Just circuits and clouds.

One of my favorite things is gazing out an oval-shaped airplane window. Looking down on our planet from 10,000 meters flying at Mach .85.

It’s right up there with long leisurely walks on secluded beaches and spirited hikes through remote groves of extremely large trees. The Earth’s beauty stunningly passing below me. Life in motion. Miles crossed every seven seconds.

Obtaining a window seat is a must in my line of work. Not only do I have something to snuggle up and lean against on sometimes endless transoceanic flights, but window seats offer me an outlet to amuse myself when not reading or watching international art heist movies. I am never disappointed. I even pay extra for the privilege, especially when the route is unique—like flying in Hawaii or the Indonesian archipelago. One wonders if airlines offer discounts if you are willing to book a window for flights into Newark (EWR), Delhi (DEL), or Dallas (DFW)?

And it’s funny, too, because my certified travel advisor (aka my wife) always asks what side of the plane I want to sit on when she books me. It’s one of my peculiar skill sets that I can immediately visualize the lay of the land (and landmarks) below my plane and what the highlights might be. I can spatially visualize it. I automatically consider the time of day of departure and arrival, the sun’s seasonal movements, and the flight path, even on polar routes. Am I flying east or west, north or south? And the type of plane and seating too: Forward the wing is the best vantage point. Aft the wing less so, but depending on plane size and engine placement, still good. Above the wing is the worst, like having obstructed view tickets at a concert.

I don’t pick a seat on the port side (left) of the aircraft when the Grand Canyon will be off to starboard (right). With experience comes wisdom, I’ve learned. Sometimes, disappointingly so. For instance, if I am flying between Seattle (SEA) and London (LHR), I want a port side window for the long trans-Atlantic flight. Why? Because, as a polar flight, I might see the Northern Lights along with Hudson Bay, Baffin Island, and the vastness of Greenland, all while avoiding the blinding sun on the starboard side of the plane. Of course, sitting on the port side of any aircraft flying into Newark (EWR) affords you spectacular views of Manhattan. While sitting on the starboard side of any takeoff route out of Los Angeles (LAX), heading north allows you to glimpse one of my special places—Malibu beach. 

I have been known to clean the windows for a better view. (Note to self: Put Windex in a small TSA-approved 3 oz. bottle in my carry-on.) And I have also been known to spend entire flights—say the seven hours flying between Istanbul (IST) and Nairobi (NBO)—serenely, kid-like, looking out the window: The magnificent Byzantium capital at takeoff, the busy trading lanes of the Sea of Marmara, the everlasting-blue Mediterranean, following the Nile River due south into Sudan over ancient Khartoum, the lushness of the Ugandan highlands, and finally the haphazard hustle bustle that is Nairobi before landing. I gaze outside, oblivious to the cabin mayhem and petty dramas surrounding me. I always feel secluded in my window seat, detached from my fellow passengers fingering their iPhones or absorbed in Baywatch reruns. I am firmly ensconced, with a fabulous bird’s eye view.

I have been hooked since my maiden airplane flight in 1971, flying home from Southern California (LAX-DTW) after a family affair on a shiny new American Airlines 747. I remember, after checking out the 747 cockpit to aft galley—things were different back then: I even got a glimpse of the 3-seat cockpit upstairs adjacent to the boisterous upper-deck bar/lounge—I was transfixed with window seats. Barring the mid-to-late-80s when I was too cool, seemingly more interested in the dark-blue uniform-clad stewardesses’ curves than the curvature of the earth. And then there was a jaded, brief period in the late 90s, flying private a lot when I usually had to prepare for future meetings while flying to and fro.

And over 50 years later, I am still awed regularly sitting in my window seat. Seeing the radiance of light on clouds and on the aircraft itself. Witnessing an endless transmuting array of quickly rearranging framed scenes (mise en scène): cloudscapes, seascapes, landscapes, clear and cloudy, dawn and dusk. I see mighty mountains, desolate deserts, Greenland (my favorite place to fly over), vast endless oceans, mighty winding rivers, jewels of islands, verdant jungles, the boreal forests of Canada, Arctic ice floes, lightning storms, steaming volcanoes, shimmering lakes big and small, the great plains of Tanzania and Ukraine, endless sunrises and sunsets, the very curvature of the Earth, and sometimes even the aurora borealis themselves. A rare and breathtaking sight. And loving geography as I always have, I usually know the names of the places below me.

Hours over Greenland coming…

Following the flows of the mighty rivers of the world is remarkable: the Tigris, Ganges and Nile, the Amazon, Mississippi and Mekong, the Colorado, McKenzie and Yangtze, the Orinoco, Ob and Rhine, the Seine, Thames, and Detroit River whose shoreline I grew up on. I love rivers.

I love seeing other planes in my proximity too. I don’t feel so alone in the friendly skies. And let me tell you, they can sometimes be busy highways (aka The Tracks), albeit at 10,000 meters up. People soon realize looking out the window, that the horizontal separation between aircraft flying at the same altitude is just over 9 kilometers (five nautical miles). Vertically they can be as close as 300 meters (< 1,000 feet)! Military planes are always interesting to spot—they fly higher and usually in pairs. But it is always fun seeing an aircraft off the horizon approaching and then zooming past at Mach 0.85—that’s 926 km/h, 500 knots, or 575 mph—times two! Real fast.

Flying over vast spaces and looking down on the planet, its scenes and scenery, its geography and weather, is known to have a psychological effect on the mindfully observant. Coined by Frank White in 1980 and known as the Overview Effect—astronauts were the first to have it. Researchers say it creates "a state of awe with self-transcendent qualities” that are “precipitated by a particularly striking visual stimulus." Basically, it is a feeling of being beyond words, not unlike how I feel during my walks on beaches or communing with giant trees. But it requires personal experience to grasp. So, I can’t explain it. You either have experienced it or have not. I’m lucky.

Looking out plane windows, I see fragility, vastness, no borders, racial differences, sexism, religion, and arbitrary political lines in the sand. Just one big ball. And it is transcendence. "Imagine all the people," sang John Lennon.

Of course, I have endured the slings and arrows of those who don’t see what I see. Having to deal sometimes with angry fellow passengers who were giving me the evil eye to close my window shade. Perhaps they are getting unwanted glare on their Bejeweled game or seatback TV screen watching Happy Gilmore. Killjoys! Never tested it out, but I suppose there is an airplane window etiquette—and the person in the window seat should have control over the window shades. I shouldn't need permission, not unlike the seat-back position or middle seat travelers—they get both armrests, BTW! Then again, everything is controversial these days. Even looking out the window.

Aside from flying over the vastness that is most of the world—Less than 15% of the physical Earth is inhabited or used by humans!—I enjoy flying over cities. Sometimes it is your first view of the city, be it the endless drab urban brown of Cairo (CAI), the lush green of Kuala Lumpur (KUL), or the mountain majesty of Kathmandu (KTM). I relish observing the flows and textures of civilization below: from nature to farmland, from following the twinkling red and white lights of ant-like cars below on a remote highway merging into brightly lit urban freeways of traffic, from the housing suburbs to downtown cityscapes. I can spot shopping malls, schools and stadiums. The politics of the skies is apparent: Rich communities (high ratio of pools and trees), while poorer neighborhoods (high density, high rises, proximity to heavy industry). Seeing a city from above must be a city planner’s wet dream!?

Approaching an airport over a city at night is like seeing a giant circuit board. It seems so logical. Electric pulses moving about in an orderly grid-like fashion. Yet during the day, trust me when I tell you that Mumbai (BOM), Lagos (LOS), or Manila (MNL) are anything but orderly and dazzling. Again, the politics of the night sky is apparent: in Africa, a continent that’s the world’s second most populous, you see shockingly few lights and little human activity. And frankly, I have gotten as close as to Bangladesh, Saudi Arabia’s Empty Quarter, and the beaches of Somalia, as I want to get—11,000 meters up.

Yes, I love looking out the window of airplanes. And I am thrilled that slowly, ever so slowly, my son too has started staring out windows. I am happy to have passed on my passion. 

Thanks for the privilege of your time, it is the most precious thing we have, and I appreciate it. Be well.

William D. Chalmers © 2023 GreatEscape Adventures, Inc. All Rights Reserved.