Most people don’t impress me.
“You do realize how much of a prick you sound like when you say that, right?” my wife asks.
Maybe. But it’s true.
It’s not arrogance. It’s indifference.
It just takes a lot these days for me to get interested in someone.
Except for immigrant Uber drivers.
The last one I met had fled Cuba on a homemade raft and spent three days drifting at sea until the Coast Guard picked him up.
He’d risked hypothermia, drowning, and shark attack to give his family a shot at a better life.
“Cuba . . . no good,” he says.
Incredible.
That guy impressed me.
And so do Peter and Jill.
They’re the couple sitting next to me on the flight from Brisbane to Sydney.
I doubt they’ve spent any time drifting at sea on a homemade raft.
They’re seventy-ish and live on Australia’s Gold Coast.
They’re heading to Belize to see their grandkids.
And they’re going to build a house there.
“Six months in Australia, six months in Belize,” Peter tells me.
Jill’s a retired nurse. She intends to volunteer at the local hospital.
“Or the orphanage,” she says.
Of course.
That is so Jill.
But none of that is what got me interested in the couple.
I was impressed even before they sat down.
“Hang on,” Jill says to Peter, motioning him backwards a couple steps down the aisle. “Let me get this up in the bin.”
Jill flings her suitcase up into the overhead bin like it’s nothing.
Remember, she’s seventy. And weighs about ninety pounds. And stands maybe five-two.
Extraordinary.
Why?
I don’t know how many times I’ve seen little old ladies carry on suitcases they can barely roll, let alone lift, and then stand in the aisle, backing up traffic, looking around helplessly until someone finally volunteers to help them lift the damn thing into the bin.
Dan’s luggage rule: If you can’t lift it, don’t bring it.
That means you, too, ladies.
What? I’m the asshole?
Fine. I’m the asshole.
And thoroughly impressed with Jill.
Because she abides by the luggage rule.
We take our seats.
I have the aisle, Peter the middle, and Jill the window seat.
It’s a short flight to Sydney. Maybe an hour.
People all around us are staring at screens.
The lady in front of me is watching an episode of The Hills, a Two Thousands-era drama about a bunch of twenty-somethings living in L.A.
Lots of bleached hair, hook-ups, and flip phones.
The girl across the aisle from me is scrolling through her social media feed.
Instagram? TikTok?
Don’t know, don’t care.
And then there’s Peter and Jill.
Almost as soon as the landing gear is up, their tray tables are down, and Peter’s dealing cards.
No screens for them.
They’re going analog.
And what’s their game?
“Quiddler,” Peter tells me. “It’s a word game.”
Each card has one or two letters on it. The object is to form words with the letters on the cards you’ve been dealt.
Like Scrabble.
The cards are well worn.
“It’s our second deck in ten years,” Jill says, proudly. “We take it everywhere. Doesn’t take up any room. Packs nice and easy.”
For the next thirty minutes, Peter and Jill focus intently on their game.
Jill keeps score in a little notebook.
When it looks like they’re taking a break, I ask Peter how he’s doing.
“Lousy,” he says. “She’s got me two-nil.”
Now, I’m no neuroscientist.
But everything I’ve read about the science of brain health and longevity suggests we should all be more like Peter and Jill.
Active.
Open to new experiences.
Fully invested in people and relationships.
Regular consumers of brainteasers and card games.
These are the things that bring health and happiness to the later stages of life.
And the early ones.
Bravo, Peter and Jill.
I’m happy I met you.
Enjoy the house in Belize.
And the grandkids.
And your work at the hospital. And the orphanage.
And thank you
For setting such a wonderful example
With your luggage
And your Quiddler
And your life.