A Little Kindness

Goes a long way, especially now.

On my last home-to-home trip (that is from Lima to Patagonia) navigating the new pandemic-induced-flying-stress -not to be confused with the old shoe kinda stress we knew well- I was touched by the kindness of strangers*.

Expected kindness has lost a bit of its sheen; my patient husband and I ran out of conversation somewhere in mid-October and now cling to the tiniest bit of news so we can stretch it through lunch.

We don’t do dinner anymore.

In the past I took good things for granted. Most thirty-year-olds do. The week after I arrived in New York to start yet another chapter of my life -I’m now into chapter nine, my life is best described as “in transit”- I was having lunch at the food court of one of the now gone Twin Towers. While maneuvering chopsticks into a bowl of Chinese fried rice someone stole my bag.

My whole life was in that bag. Passport, Social Security Card, credits cards, checkbook, keys and all my money.

I was new in town, had no one to call, I was left with nothing. Cop came, tried to help. I burst into tears, got the front of his Blues all wet. Then an old man approached and gave me a dollar. “Subway fare, so you can get home”.

Some months later I took my son to the small airport on a Caribbean island so he could fly back to his Dad and school. I was staying with friends and had no money, again. I had used the last of it for cab fare to the airport and was resigned to walk back. How bad could it be? I stood by the chain link fence on the runway until his plane disappeared and started walking.

Night had fallen, the sudden black night of the tropics and what had seemed like a short ride in a car was actually a long walk on a pitch-dark deserted road. Merde! The prospect looked extremely unsavory but I had no other way of getting home. One-third along the way a car stopped. The man offered me a lift. Social unrest had started on the island and I was taking chances, but the guy turned out to be perfect. Drove me to the steps of the house and only accepted my heartfelt thanks.

I had just started living in Geneva when I was unceremoniously bumped from a promised job. I tried going into business on my own. I found a smart location for a shop and made friends with the couple who were leaving the premises. I had to buy back their contract; again no money. Got loans from F&F and still came up short the day of the signature.

I decided to make the meeting, regardless, and walked to the bus stop. I happened on a guy I had met briefly at a party, he said hello and asked me where I was going. I told him the story (short version) and he offered to buy me coffee. I knew he was a former banker now broke and on the run from creditors “That is why I am telling you all this. I know you are as broke as I am”. He laughed and said, “Maybe, but not quite. I still have enough to bail you out”** and proceeded to write me a check on the spot.

Again he only accepted my gratitude and a full refund some months later.

Back to this month’s trip complete with all the Covid pre-boarding drama.

PCR test, 72 hours earlier but not before and not later. Filling the online health certificate that refuses to accept that my name is, well my name, and my flight number is the one I have in front. Give up when I read that after 60 you can do it manually; clever computer knows about digitally-impaired baby boomers.

Upon arriving at the airport I realized I’ve left my carry-on back home and adrenaline level goes off the charts. Totally resourceful driver offers to go and get it. At the counter I stumble on an angel, disguised as an airline agent. She says certificate’s got to be uploaded into the system. We try and fail. By then blood pressure is probably reaching stroke zone, information that I promptly share with Tabatha who looks properly terrified at the prospect of my dying on her counter and proceeds to grow wings.

Goes to up the airline office and gets everything done. By then the driver is back with my suitcase and I have just enough time left to make the flight.

I am the only passenger. Pierina, the flight attendant in charge, brings me a blobby mess masquerading as a sandwich -and this in Premium Economy- to sustain me on my five-hour flight.

Before reaching our destination Pierina takes pity on me, grows her own pair of wings, and proposes a tray of scrumptious food “same as the captain’s”.

A little kindness makes for a great trip.

**“A Streetcar named Desire” Tennessee Williams (1947)

** The Swiss are never completely broke.