Cool Article About Sir Paul

Spokane, WA. April 16, 2006 -- The Spokesman-Review

She loves him, yeah, yeah, yeah

I now consider my 11-hour transatlantic flight as the revenge of the Paul girls.

Just over a week ago I boarded a 747 at London Heathrow with my husband. I as chatting with my seatmate, a woman who grew up in Great Britain, when she whispered, here's Paul McCartney."

I glanced up to see a man's back in a brown pinstriped jacket. He was carrying a toddler with blond pigtails and heading into the first-class cabin a few feet away.

"He's the one with the little girl," she said.

I wasn't entirely convinced. The back of the man's head looked like it belonged to a 35-year-old. It isn't as if I'm always flying back from London, mind you, always spotting celebrities. This was my second London flight in my life. And the biggest celebrity I'd ever flown with before was probably Ronny Turiaf.

But I kept an eye on the man. And soon McCartney was out of his brown suit jacket, roaming all over the cabin, smiling, chatting with the flight crew, carrying his daughter in and out of the restrooms. And my seatmate was exactly right. I'd recognize his face anywhere. Soon the lyrics to "Love Me Do" started playing through my brain.

I remembered the first time I ever laid eyes on Paul McCartney. I was 8 years old, perched in my pajamas in front of the Ed Sullivan show on a Sunday evening.

Paul was the one I liked best. The other third-grade girls and I compared notes later.

The captain came on and announced there was a problem with the plane. We'd need to stay on the ground while it was being fixed.

I kept a close eye on my favorite Beatle. An airline attendant seemed to be briefing him separately. He appeared relaxed, but airline repairs ­ especially when I'm about to head over the Atlantic ­ make me nervous. They trigger my imagination. I mused about how British Airways certainly wouldn't take any chances with him on board. If they tried to sneak him off the flight, I plotted, I was out of there.

McCartney hopped up and rounded a corner talking into his cell phone. He wore a plum-colored vest, a matching shirt and a familiar expression of British glee. As I watched him, he grinned at me and winked.

I was instantly 8 years old all over again.

It crossed my mind to ask to interview him. But I couldn't think of a plausible reason to bother him. We were flying to Los Angeles, not Spokane. And if I so much as passed a note to him, I knew the curtains would likely fall, air marshals might descend, and I'd lose my chance to gaze into his life.

His daughter ­ Beatrice Milly, who is 2 and a half, I later learned ­ was full of energy. And she wound up frequently in her father's arms. Her mother wasn't on the flight, and her dad had only a couple of traveling companions.

The minutes ticked on. I fretted again about the plane repairs.

But McCartney didn't seem to have any qualms. And after an hour and a half, the cabin doors began locking. I looked for Sir Paul. As I heard the jet begin to roll toward the runway, I glimpsed McCartney's plum-colored shoulder in a seat beyond me. No one had whisked him off the plane. Suddenly I felt better. I was flying with a national treasure.

As our plane roared into the sky, the flight attendants drew the curtain between our two cabins. And I thought about what it meant to be a Paul girl. At one time, we were mocked for being superficial. Fluffy. Sentimental. Paul was the one singing silly love songs. The John girls somehow seemed smarter, more worldly. They understood tortured artists; I didn't.

After dinner, we all bedded down to watch movies and drift off as the flight soared over the Atlantic. Little Beatrice escaped her father's arms a couple of times and darted through the velvety curtains into our cabin. Each time, a gray-haired man, one of McCartney's traveling companions, ambled down the aisle to rescue her. The cabin grew dark and quiet. My movie wound down, and I pulled a blanket under my chin.

Just then a little blond head shot past my seat and down into the next compartment. A moment or two passed. Finally, the gray-haired man appeared, his eyes wild. I pointed my thumb toward the rear of the plane. He grinned, nodded and zipped through the passengers. It was a scene out of the movie "Help!"

And then the curtains parted.

There stood Paul McCartney, wearing navy blue pajamas.

He strode right into our compartment. His traveling companion brought his daughter up between our seats, and McCartney scooped up the little girl, holding her close for a few moments. He spoke to her softly before they disappeared.

And we all fell asleep for that short night.

I awoke later in the darkness. I checked the in-flight map. We were somewhere over Kearney, Neb. I considered the selection I'd made as a third-grader again, and I felt entirely justified.

Paul McCartney turned out to be as adorable at 63 as he was when I was 8. There's something appealing about sanity. About lyrics like "I'll always be true" and "Let it be." About a man whose mere presence has the power to scare away the blue meanies and soothe little girls of all ages.

Now when I tell my friends about the night I saw Paul McCartney in his jammies, I'm tempted to swipe one of his lyrics.

Here's the thing about being a Paul girl after all these years:

It's getting better all the time.