One night during the heady days of adolescence, I and a group of male friends sat around talking about our hoped-for lovers to come. What would they be like? What did we hope for and expect? How would we meet?

When it came to my turn to share, I provided granular detail. Looking back on it, my list could have been more focused on what one should look for in a partner. But such is the naivety of youth. Being a native Californian and a big fan of The Beach Boys, I imagined her blonde, though with hazel or dark eyes. Given my lifelong passion for aviation, I thought I’d meet her because of flying, maybe at an airport.

I superstitiously assumed my favorite number, 27, might play a part. And as I was slightly obsessed at that time with all things British, I thought she might have something to do with the UK or Ireland, perhaps.

Then something remarkable happened. A friend and I had volunteered to go on service missions, extended stays of a year and a half far from home. Some of the potential assignments were abroad. We were both glad to be assigned to different countries in South America, and I flew out to Utah from St. Louis to celebrate our good fortune together.

After a weekend of sharing our excitement with friends and family, I waited for my Trans World Airlines (TWA) flight home. When I boarded the plane, I found a businessman in my assigned seat. He sighed when I approached him, and motioning to his already-open briefcase, he asked, “Would you mind switching seats with me? They put me in the row right in front of us, and we’d be three across, and I have all this work to do.”

“No problem!” I quickly answered. On the way down the aisle, I noticed a very intriguing young woman occupied the two passengers in his assigned row and the middle seat. So I took his seat and considered it a stroke of good fortune. The young woman told the older man in the window seat that she was on her way to London via St. Louis and JFK and had never flown that far. I smiled.

“I’ve done that flight,’’ I shared. “But that on the polar route, nonstop from Los Angeles. At least you have a couple of stops to stretch your legs.” And thus began a conversation that lasted for the next fifteen months. While she lived and worked in Ireland, I was in Venezuela. This being the days before email, we wrote letters every couple of weeks, and surprisingly, not a single correspondence was ever lost in the mail. We sent pictures back and forth, the printed-on-paper kind, and even exchanged cassette tapes to hear one another’s voices. To this day, our letters share a storage box, reunited as they never were before.

When we returned stateside, we attended the same university and quickly found ourselves in a committed relationship. It was inevitable, I surmised. Remember that trivial list of qualities of my future soulmate? Well, I met her on a plane, a Boeing 727. And she was on her way to England and then the Emerald Isle. Her eyes were a deep shade of hazel, and her blonde hair was always coiffed in that blown-out 80s style that only someone who lived in the 80s would appreciate the elegance and allure such styles conjured up.

Balancing college and career aspirations proved tricky, though, and at some point, I decided I was not ready for the next steps in a permanent relationship. I erroneously agreed that she wasn’t, either. Though happy for her, I was sad to find out she married the next guy she dated. I married a few years later, and our two families grew to seven children between us (okay, five of them were hers!).

But as life constantly reminds us, nothing ever goes as planned, and both our marriages turned out less than ideal. So, after a nearly three-decade intermission in the relationship, we tried again. We had a geographical distance to conquer again this time, and the brilliant invention of the airplane came to the rescue once again. We flew out to see one another, often meeting in neutral cities.

Eventually, we found ourselves on another flight to St. Louis, thirty-one years after the first, and on Valentine’s Day, no less. At some point, I leaned into her and said, “At least you’ll get to stretch your legs when you get to New York.” She smiled and rolled her eyes a little. I was pleased that after all that time, she recognized that bit of dialogue from our first flight together.

I happened to be there when TWA retired the 727s from service. Before landing, the last 727 flight into St. Louis executed a low pass over Lambert International Airport. The 727s are all gone now, as is TWA. Eventually, our second chance at love came to an end as well. But there isn’t a single trip to the airport or flight on an airliner that doesn’t bring it all back to me.

With all the changes in modern air travel — winding security lines, luggage fees, Biscoff cookies instead of a full meal — it may not evoke the glamor and romance that Sinatra sang of in classic tunes like “Come Fly With Me” or “Fly Me To the Moon.”

But to this hopeful air traveller, every flight is still full of promise, excitement, and unknown opportunities. Perhaps one of these days, I’ll walk down that airplane aisle, find someone in my assigned seat, and volunteer to take the open seat next to someone who will bring all those wonderful memories flooding back in. If you find yourself on board an airplane today, welcome, dreamer! Have a pleasant flight and a happy Valentine’s Day.