People don’t talk much on planes anymore.

Back in the day when I wore the trim blue uniform of an American Airlines stewardess, everyone chatted with their seat partners. We heard it all . . . laughter, love and lies.

Some passengers chatted just enough to be polite, realizing quickly they didn’t have much to talk about. But others – well, it ran the gamut. Businessmen met, talked and wound up making worthwhile contacts. Grandparents bragged and showed pictures. It was not uncommon to overhear sophisticated travelers talking about Machu Picchu or Corfu or Patagonia – places that back then I’d never heard of.

On many of the long-haul flights friendships were born, romances begun and, most often, a delightful time was had by all. Then everything changed. Well, to my mind at least, two things changed air travel: Going through Homeland Security puts everyone in a bad mood even before they get to the gate and then what does that unhappy, beleaguered traveler do? He plugs in. By the time the masses are gathered in the gate area, all headsets are in place and all the plugees are deep into their computers or checking cell phone messages. No one chats at the gate anymore unless they’ve all shared a three hour delay and can group-gripe.

It makes me sad that so many people have determined that their favorite canned music is more interesting than people. I would have missed so many wonderful stories and genuine characters had I not talked to the person in the next seat. Nowadays, when a young person arrives at the seat next to me – already plugged in – they seldom even make eye contact. I’m sure they’re afraid that my having white hair is an automatic hour and a half discussion about grandchildren or peonies. Little do they know how much I’d prefer asking them why they became a computer programmer and who their favorite team is.

Thank goodness we weren’t plugged in the foggy night that I was seated beside Jonathon Winters for almost four hours. Although I was wearing my uniform, I was a ticketed passenger. At the time we lived in San Diego but since the nearest crew base was Los Angeles, I occasionally had a challenging commute. When the weather looked dubious for a morning fight, which was often in San Diego’s winter fogs, I’d head to L.A. the night before my assigned flight. That particular night however, Los Angeles was socked in and we had to wait to depart until LAX opened. The forecast was opening by midnight.

My assigned seat was the empty one next to Mr. Winters in first class. I asked him if he’d prefer to be alone and offered to find another seat. He went immediately into his “Maude Frickert” voice, the creaky 87-year-old he often played in full long dress, wig and all. He patted the seat and said, “You sit right here, dearie. This old lady likes company.” We began our relationship laughing.

For the next four hours we talked. We began by talking about the weather – what else? And we moved on to flying which he often excoriated in his comedy routines and record albums, sometimes including his Maude Frickert as the world’s oldest stewardess. He had his one-person audience laughing very hard. Then we got serious.

We talked about politics, life after death, personal value systems. We talked about American history, the founding fathers and big government. My husband was a navy pilot and he’d been a marine so we discussed the military at length. We solved all of California’s fiscal problems and planned the future of education. He derived enormous pleasure from his painting. And while he was opinionated, he was well-read, open to discussing anything. Eventually that openness led to talking about his personal life.

He was one of those people who was so spontaneously funny that you just knew there was this enormous well inside filled with life experience and a crazy way of looking at the world – different than the rest of us. When Robin Williams first came to prominence he was often compared to Jonathon Winters – the same off-the-wall view of life. But that comes with a high price tag on one’s sanity. As we talked, Mr. Winters told me about his personal trauma and his lifelong struggle with mental illness. He told me about his difficult and unhappy childhood and his confinements in “the looney bin” – his words. And finally he confessed to being married to the most understanding, caring and patient woman in the world. He told me their love story . . . he adored her.

I don’t know why he chose to confide in me – and at the end of our evening he said just that But sometimes out there in the world, when we allow ourselves to openly communicate with someone, things just click. He thanked me profusely for listening and we hugged at the gate when we went our separate ways in Los Angeles.

I came away from the experience with enormous respect for a man living a complicated life and it reconfirmed my opinion that the shining stars among us are just people with a different set of complications. Celebrity culture has never intrigued me because it’s unrealistic and often painful to watch. This was a real man, with real problems and real joys. If we hadn’t chatted I would have missed a wonderful human being and a major life experience. I cried when he passed a few years ago.

As I get older the opportunities for spontaneous conversations and friendships diminish. I’m not taking a chance on missing one – so I’m going to remain unplugged.