I dashed through SEA-TAC Airport, my twenty-pound backpack weighing me down, racing from one airline's arrival gate to another's departure gate. My flight from San Francisco had landed late, and I had only twenty minutes to catch my connecting flight to Tokyo, which would make a brief stop in Anchorage.

In August, I was beginning the second leg of my journey to Fairbanks, Alaska, where I would start a new role as a law clerk for the chief judge of the Alaska Superior Court. Having just earned my California law license by passing the Bar Exam, I was both excited and nervous.

The night before, I had said my goodbyes to my boyfriend, Tyler. Although I wished he could join me, his commitment to an architectural internship kept him in San Francisco.

I arrived at the Western Airlines gate slightly out of breath but not exhausted. I was accustomed to running six miles at a fast pace, so the jog had been manageable, even with the heavy backpack.

Dressed in my favorite fitted cream shirt adorned with black and red stripes and my preferred gray gym shorts, I felt confident. My athletic appearance, accentuated by my choice of clothing, certainly turned heads, particularly among those who appreciated such things.

The gate agent, a lean young man with striking green eyes, informed me, “All passengers are aboard. We’re closing the jetway, and I’m afraid we had to give your seat to a standby passenger.”

“However,” he continued, “we have room in first class. Would you like to sit there instead?”

I was pleasantly surprised by this turn of events and replied playfully, “Well, I guess I could manage that, especially since it's you asking.”

After exchanging knowing glances, he guided me to my luxurious first-class seat, a plush black leather recliner. I stowed my bag overhead, and he paused to chat with the flight attendant before departing.

My backpack contained a rolled-up pair of Levi's, a wool shirt for colder weather, my toiletries, and several books, including John McPhee’s Coming into the Country, which I had begun reading on my earlier flight.

As the flight attendants prepared for takeoff, Andrew, the first-class attendant, served us champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Once airborne, he came to take dinner orders.

“Which would you prefer?” he asked. “Roast beef or chicken?”

“I’m a vegetarian; do you have a fruit and cheese plate?” I inquired, half-expecting an accommodating response.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied with a sympathetic expression.

“That’s alright,” I assured him. “I can manage without.”

He nodded and moved on. Soon after, he returned with a glass of red wine and a decanter, offering, “At least let me provide you with some wine. I chose our finest Shiraz.”

I accepted and settled in with my book, enjoying the wine. About twenty minutes later, Andrew reappeared, carrying a silver platter filled with a delightful assortment of fruit, cheese, and rolls.

“You mentioned there wasn’t any,” I reminded him.

“I scavenged from eight coach meals to create this,” he explained.

I savored the special treat, relishing the wine and reading about Alaska. According to McPhee, Alaskans refer to their home as The Country, while everything else is simply Outside.

My real journey into Alaska wouldn’t be through the air but rather by train. I planned to take the Alaska Railroad for a scenic nine-hour ride to Fairbanks, passing by breathtaking landscapes and Mount McKinley.

After my clerkship, I headed to Seattle for a month of cultural exploration and personal indulgence. I had tickets for performances at the Seattle Opera House and Symphony, plus a visit to the Tutankhamen exhibit. My adventures also included exploring the city's vibrant gay nightlife with the help of my trusty Damron Guide.

I stayed with a friend on Capitol Hill and began my mornings with runs around the park and leisurely breakfasts at a local bistro. The weather in August was perfect, and I found myself enjoying my coffee while soaking in the atmosphere.

One day, as I headed to a mailbox, a charming voice offered me a ride from a stunning cherry-red Mustang. The driver was an exceptionally handsome young man.

I accepted his offer, and we spent a delightful afternoon together. However, when he asked me to help him tidy up before his partner returned, I realized our time was limited.

By late August, I had fulfilled most of my cultural cravings and flirtations. During a visit to a chic gay bar, I spotted a familiar figure across the room. My heart raced as I approached, but instead of the man I had noticed, I greeted the gate agent from my flight, Andrew.

His eyes lit up as he recognized me, and we embraced, sharing a connection that had begun in the air. Andrew was free for the next two weeks, and we spent my final days in Seattle exploring the city and each other.

As I prepared to leave, I asked him about the gate agent's parting words.

“Take good care of him. He’s one of us,” Andrew laughed, adding, “I hope I’ve done just that.”