Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday was our third wedding anniversary.  For years we celebrated by trying to do something special, which always backfired. One year we attempted to have a picnic atop Mt. Rainier and were chased down by deer flies and a bug I’ve only seen the likes of in the darkest forests of Central America.  Another year we went to Port Townsend and stayed at the weirdest bed and breakfast that ever saw the light of day.  We finally decided to stop celebrating our anniversary with fanfare after our experience two years ago, when we spent over $100 on a meal that left us famished.  This year was going to be different.  This year we were going to be in Portugal on our round-the-world journey!

Correction:  we would be traveling to Portugal on our anniversary, which should have had disaster written all over it.  But our talisman was the carrier we chose to make the journey:  Easy Jet.  How hard could a trip be on Easy Jet?   I was eager to try this low-cost carrier, which promised bargain basement prices to a variety of European locales.  We set off for the airport at 11:15 am to make our 1:30 pm flight. This time around, we had much greater success navigating the Madrid subway system; I was beginning to feel like a real Madrileno.

When we arrived at the airport at 12:15, the Easy Jet line stretched on for what seemed like miles.  I soon realized that Easy Jet is the Southwest Airlines of Europe:  you get what you pay for.  Check-in was due to close at 12:50, and as we inched our way towards the front of the line, I watched, panicked, as the clock struck 12:48.  I seemed to be the only person in line concerned.  “We’re never going to make it,” I told Maikael. ”We’ll be fine,” he said.  “Trust me.”  I tried my best to be cool as a cucumber, but failed miserably.  We made it to the front of the line in the nick of time and raced through security, reaching the gate at 1:05, just a few minutes after boarding was to commence.  But the door to the gate was closed, and there was no gate agent.  So, we waited.

By 1:30, the situation remained the same. A line formed, as if creating a queue might nudge the cosmos into action. The passengers, with passports from as far away from New Zealand, shifted back and forth on the balls of their feet.  We waited some more.  A flight to Gothenburg came and went.  We waited.  I began checking the reader board. At 1:30 it estimated the flight would leave at 1:35.  At 1:35, 1:40.  And so it updated in 5 minute increments until 2pm. The line deflated.  Then, a representative from the airline approached the desk, at which point spontaneous applause broke out in the terminal, and the line reformed faster than I’ve ever seen in my life.  She began flashing cards, written in large, orange, bubbly font, Easy Jet’s signature graphic.  “SA.”  She displayed the card like Vanna White. Then, “A.”  “Groupo A,” she said, making a sweeping gesture in front of her.  Passengers, like a herd of cattle, milled in front of her.  She flashed a card marked “B,” our group, to which we fell into line behind her like soldiers.  We stood around for five minutes.   We thought maybe we had missed some important detail, so we asked the guy next to us, whose passport read “Espana” if there was something more we should be doing.  “No,” he said, “this is weird.” Finally, another announcement in Spanish.  “The flight has been delayed another 35 minutes. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”  The line crumbled. 

I’m not sure what the point of assembling us was, but it must have made everyone hungry, because a group filed en masse to the cafeteria (the neighboring Robot Cafe was, sadly, closed).  We munched on a jamon y queso sandwich. We waited.  People circled the electronic reader board, looking spectral.  “See,” said Maikael, “I said you didn’t have anything to worry about.”  He was right.  At 3:00 pm we went through the card charade again.  More cheering.  We boarded the plane, at which time we were given a technically impressive description of the hold up, something to do with computer problems and having to ship a part from the UK.  The flight attendants passed through three times with their head count clickers, like ushers at a movie theatre, which I thought was a little odd.  Finally, a voice crackled over the loudspeaker.  “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. We have another leetle probleam.”  The flight manifest listed 120 passengers, but there were 122 aboard the plane.  We couldn’t leave until things were resolved.  “Ladies and gentleman, is everyone on board going to Lisboa today?”  “I’m beginning to think not!” shouted the guy behind us, which signaled a wave of laughter through the plane.  We waited another 30 minutes.  Turns out, it was another computer problem. The wheels began moving at 4:30, nearly three hours behind schedule for a one-hour flight. 

We arrived at the airport and, after one snafu, caught the correct bus to our hostel.  It was rush hour, and the bus was packed.  I was sweaty, and hot, and tired,  and straddled my  backpack amongst the crush of passengers.  The woman next to me offered the space above her for my luggage. It was a small gesture, totally in the spirit of the kindness of strangers, but I just about cried with happiness:  it was exactly what I needed in that moment.  We checked in, dumped our bags, and I couldn’t help but grin.  It was, by most accounts, a miserable day.  But it was the happiest I had been since starting this trip three days ago.  My life has shifted towards small victories.  My friend, Sarah, had a baby last year, and I remember her telling me that the days she got to take a shower and make it out of the house to the grocery store was a big deal.  That’s exactly how I feel:  the only difference is that I’m learning to mother an eight-month trip. Getting from Madrid to Lisbon – and all the steps in between — felt like a major success.   It was my tinge of reassurance that maybe I can really do this. 

After showering, we decided to walk down to the Parque das Nascoes, which was developed for Expo ‘98.  We had no idea this gorgeous strip of waterfront property was in our backyard for the next week.  We walked along the Tejo River, taking in the cloudless blue sky and the palms fringed with sunlight.  We stopped at a waterfront restaurant for dinner and ordered a bottle of  $12 Vinho da Casa – the house wine, which happened to be Portugese.  We watched the moon scoop out of the sky, casting a soft beam of light over the water. 

We didn’t give each other gifts of leather or glass this year., the tradition for third anniversaries  But it was best anniversary I can ever remember; it was the perfect end to a perfect day.