✈️ The First Class Shuffle

My car was broken into again. That’s two times in ten days. No smashed windows, no alarm—just the quiet violation of someone rummaging through my things while the world slept.

The first time, they left everything in disarray but didn’t take anything—probably because there wasn’t anything of value to take. This time, they upped the ante. Drained the battery somehow, so I had to call for a tow. And this time, they left me a gift: a pile of break-in tools, a handful of keys, and a burnt glass pipe—clear evidence of drug use.

One of the keys belongs to a mailbox right here on the property.

Now, maybe that mailbox key belonged to another victim—someone who, like me, was just unlucky. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind: Have I found the perpetrator? Did they break into my car… and unknowingly leave behind a trail that leads right back to them?

I filed a police report, more for the paper trail than out of any expectation. I’ve played this game before. The complex says there’s security at night, but I’ve yet to see a soul. Not even a flashlight beam in the dark.

And here’s the thing—this is the part that stings a little deeper: I want to believe these people are my neighbors. I want Nomad Santa to say that. But I’m struggling.

Part of me wants to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “Can’t you find something better to do with your life?” Another part of me thinks of all the scam calls, the phishing emails, the fake tech support lines targeting seniors (like me). There’s this rising tide of desperation masquerading as hustle.

“Get a job,” people say. But what if your mind is swimming in chemicals? What if your past has anchored you to the bottom? What if your “Sitz im Leben”—your place in life—is a storm-damaged raft drifting with no land in sight?

Homelessness. Addiction. Mental illness. It’s a mess we haven’t figured out yet. A wicked, tangled problem.

And I—Nomad Santa—sit here with a handful of someone else’s keys, wondering what door they no longer open.

I’m angry. But I’m also sad. And maybe a little tired.

But I’m not giving up. Not on my neighbors. Not yet.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.

I was working a flight to—well, I forget where—but I remember the scene like it happened yesterday.

Two well-dressed older women boarded together, each with a small dog in tow and each holding a first-class ticket. Sweet ladies. Charming, even. But here’s the hitch: airline policy only allows one pet in the first-class cabin.

As departure time ticked closer, they stood near the boarding door, in polite debate each insisting that the other take the first class seat. In the end, they resolved that they would go to coach together—both of them offering to give up their premium seats and head to coach so the dogs wouldn’t have to be separated from the other.

It was gracious… but there was just one problem: coach was full.

Just then, a young couple rushed onboard—last-minute, breathless, clearly fresh off a terminal sprint. I asked if they were seated together. They nodded. “Perfect,” I said. “Give me your boarding passes.”

I handed the ladies the couple’s coach tickets, and said, “Go ahead and have a seat, please.” They were more than happy with the solution. The dogs were happy too.

Then I turned to the couple, gestured to the now-empty first-class seats, and said, “Sit.”

The young man hesitated. “But, but—” he stammered. I think he was worried he’d have to pay for the new seats. 
I gave him a look and said: “Sit down and shut up before I change my mind”.

He sat. She followed.
And just like that, the first class cabin who had been watching the drama unfold burst into laughter.

The dogs curled up. The ladies smiled. The couple settled in, stunned but grateful. The flight took off on time.

Sometimes, the best solutions don’t follow procedure—they follow people.
A little flexibility, a little kindness, and a dash of quick thinking can turn a policy problem into a round of applause.

Because if I’ve learned anything up in the air, it’s this:
It’s a small world—and we’re all neighbors. Even at 35,000 feet.