I noticed something at the Airport in Burlington, Vermont as I waited for a plane to Philadelphia, connecting to Missouri. The waiting area at one of the gates is directly across from the security checkpoint, and you can watch people as they pass through the metal detector. From time to time a passenger would set off the alarm. The security guard, a paunchy gray fellow in his late 50s or 60s would respond. If it was a male passenger, he would usually have them back up behind the portal, empty their pockets into the basket provided, and try again. If it was a young, attractive female passenger, he would pull out his hand-held metal detector, a device that looks like a cattle prod, have her stand with her arms akimbo, and use run the device along her body. It would shriek at any metallic mass.

I felt both scandalized and just amused, and not a little confused about how to respond. It wasn’t obvious or grotesque enough for me to report the guy, but any red-blooded heterosexual male could figure out what was happening . Some of my readers will think me an insensitive lout, but I’ll leave it to a more committed feminist than me to turn the guy in.

Now I’m perched in the food court at Philadelphia airport in a place that allows me to sit behind my laptop and people-watch. I was upgraded to first class on the Burlington to Philadelphia leg, and that means I’m slightly intoxicated from free gin. It’s a wonderful seat. All the traffic to or from Terminal B passes here, and it’s a delight and a wonder to watch these travelers. There seems to be a story in every face, posture, and stack of luggage that troops past, and I find myself imagining their origin, destination, troubles, and joys.

Family of four, little girl pulling the large rolling cart. Well-heeled and very tan couple in designer clothes, he with a garment bag. Grim but not unattractive grey-haired woman (my age) with a leather backpack and raincoat over her forearm. Giggling team of three black women, their burger King cups swinging as they laughed through the area. Young woman of staggering beauty in a white dress. Worried-looking middle age fellow in khakis and out-of-style shirt. Man in tweed jacket focussing all his attention on the ATM machine. Tow-headed toddler with pacifier and what must be grandpa, both looking a little shell-shocked. Three generations of women in identical jeans, wearing very different tops, sharing a long loping stride. Plenty of weary-looking men like me. Tall, striking, thin yuppie couple all in black with a child of 10 or so dressed all in bright blue. Droopy-pants kid with skateboard and bright orange t-shirts.

I am, I supose, something of a voyeur. I wonder if I’m any better than the security guard at Burlington.. I think not — I’m fascinated not just by the attractive young women but by the stories in every face. On the other hand, my gaze lingers a few microseconds on the more, uh, interesting forms that pass. Perhaps I’m just hiding behind my observation and my writing the way he hides behind his uniform and badge.

I’m not just a terrible voyeur. I’m also an eavesdropper, or whatever the aural equivalant of “voyeur” is. On the plane here, gin in hand, I closed my eyes and listened intently to the conversation in the seat behind me. One passenger, a very distinguished-looking man of African descent, was flying back from the UVM graduation ceremony, where he had been a commencement speaker — several passengers, obviously parents returning home from their children’s graduation, complimented him on the speech as they headed to the coach compartment. His seatmate was a businessman from Plattsburgh (across the lake from Burlington). He appeared to have to the brains of a box of rocks, but was genial and kind. Mr. Commencement was clearly a man of great intelligence and erudition — he had received the Presidential freedom award, America’s highest civilian honor.

The mention of that award was what what caught my ear as I slouched in a gin-muddled drowse my wide first-class seat, but as the plane rose the conversation plummetted from those lofty heights. It drifted briefly past the subject of Bill Clinton, whom Mr. Commencement clearly respected, and for whom Mr. Businessman tried to dredge up some faint praise. After some awkward moments the discussion drifted to air travel, and settled down to an excruciatingly detailed dialog about airlines, terminals, and gates: probably the only topic the two men had in common. The plane landed and, as we shuffled out I mooched pieces of the Sunday New York Times from a relieved-looking Mr. Commencement.