It's time to go again. It's time to go to the airport to sit and wait for a delayed flight. Time to fall asleep on the plane after munching on my ten peanuts (no more, no less).

Since February of 1999, I've been traveling almost every week. I've gotten a few stories from it. This is one of them.

So there I was sitting, wondering why James Earl Jones was on my plane.

He was in the first seat of first class. A book was in his hand; he was reading it peacefully. And he was wearing—get this—a Bell Atlantic shirt!

"Bell Atlantic: Where the Wild Things Are"

Two ladies in front of me did a double take on him. "Is that him? Is that him?"

The flight was from New York's La Guardia Airport to Virginia's Norfolk International Airport. I wonder what Mr. Jones wanted to do in Norfolk? Was it just a stop-over to another city? Maybe there's family there? I wonder.

As I took my seat, a memory blipped in my mind. Someone had been talking about Darth Vader and his voice in the airport terminal. He must have been talking about Mr. Jones.

It was a crowded terminal. Bad weather caused dozens of delays. The terminal was hot and stagnant. I hadn't noticed any particular commotion there to signify a celebrity in the midst—and I wondered—when did Mr. Jones board the plane? I'd imagine that hordes of admirers would have been bugging him for autographs had he walked through that jammed terminal.

After all of the passengers took their seats, a flurry of flashes blinked in first class—somebody was taking pictures up there. Of Mr. Jones no doubt.

Then we took off. The plane shuttered as it flew. The fault of bad weather.

A friend of mine in upstate New York, where it takes a ten minute drive to get to your neighbor, has a long and unpaved gravel driveway. Riding on it with a car is an endorsement for shock absorbers. The turbulence of this plane ride reminded me of that.

The bumps got so cacophonous that I wondered—what if we crashed? Damn, I thought, it would be a shame if Mr. Jones died on my flight. Not that it would be my fault in any way. But I'd feel darn bad if, during my first encounter with Mr. Jones, we crashed.

Obviously, we didn't. Otherwise, It would be ghastly strange to be reading all of this from me.

The turbulence ended and we landed without further incident. I exited the plane without spotting Mr. Jones again.

Last week, as I exited a plane, I walked into the blazing light of a television camera. I wondered what famous person this camera for. A gathering of travelers was huddled around the cameraman. I got to my rental car without ever finding out who they were waiting for.

There had been no television camera for Mr. Jones though. I wonder why.

. . .

Have you ever flown with someone famous?