The Kindness of Strangers

Today’s post is dedicated to George Barany.  A stranger once. Now a friend and co-conspirator in crossword puzzle crime.  Happy Birthday, Doctor. CONGRATULATIONS. 15

Recently in “The Getaway” column of the Sunday New York Times, writer Stephanie Rosenbloom discussed the joys- and potential pitfalls- of traveling as a woman alone.

“When you are traveling solo, it’s not always a breeze to strike up a conversation with a stranger,” she wrote.

“It’s easy to imagine all they ways things will go badly or believe that this person doesn’t want to connect,” added Nicholas Epley, a professor of behavioral sciences at the University of Chicago.

“But if you reach out, he continued, “almost everybody reaches back.”

Here’s my story…

Getting from Point A to Point B alone these days is complicated.

Baggage can be a real drag.

I now know where the word “lug” in “luggage” comes from.  OOOF. Now that I have no husband to do the heavy lifting, it’s all on me.

And I’m not a big one for checking bags.

Especially in wintertime- when last minute cancellations and equipment changes can lead to chaos at the baggage claim.  All my years commuting back and forth from Aspen taught me to travel light. (And if the item is irreplaceable, wear it, carry it on or leave it at home.)

But being bag-savvy doesn’t always ward off trouble.

My last fracas with carry-on luggage did not go well.

I was booked on an United flight and had brought my Swiss Army carry-on friendly wheelie bag.  This bag easily fits in the overhead compartment.

See?  And so, thus equipped, I breezily wended my way through ORD.

But then came the on-boarding process.

Uh oh.

No one, let me repeat that, NO ONE helped me heft that thing into the overhead bin.  And I was too short and/or the bag was too heavy for me to shove it up into the overhead by myself.

Yeah, yeah, I know I was blocking the aisle.  And never mind that both Nick and Kenny had pooh poohed my earlier fears that I would have trouble getting it into the bin.

“Someone will help you, Dude/Ellen,” they had reassured me. “What are you so worried about?”

Plenty- as it turns out.

Because I struggled in vain- for what seemed liked hours- before a thoroughly-annoyed man, disgustedly shoved the bag in for me.

The memory of that contretemps has haunted my travel dreams ever since.  So on my latest trip to Boston, I resolved to bring something that I could maneuver myself.

Ta da!

This attaché-sized thing was going to have to serve as my be-all end-all carry-all for five days of New England Snow-Zilla winter weather.

A challenge.  But I was up for it.

As I painstakingly considered and weighed each item I wanted to pack, I knew just how Lindbergh must have felt.  These shoes? Nope. Too heavy.  This make up bag?  No, a smaller one would do.

Sweaters.  One.  Turtlenecks?  Wear one- and roll one.  Jolly Ranchers? (A low cal oral gratification habit) A full bag of JR’s was too heavy.  Half would see me through.

And a mini bag of pretzels.

Gifts for Sam and his folks?  Nope.  I’d Amazon them something later.

Okay.  I crammed everything in.  But there was one fly in the ointment.

It was HEAVY.  And it had no wheels.

Well, you can’t have everything, I temporized.  And I probably wouldn’t have to schlep it too far through Midway Airport.

(I hoped.)

Besides, my new Single Woman Mantra these days is “Don’t be helpless, Ellen.”

(I chant it a lot.)

Travel Day I was up, Uberred and checked in at Midway by six a.m. Boarding was a snap.  The plane wasn’t too full because the horrific weather had scared off the timid and/or the smart.

I found a great up-front window seat, easily stowed my little carry-all in front of me, and prayed that the middle seat would not be taken by A. Someone with a screaming toddler.  B.  ANYONE.

I got my wish.  I was left blissfully alone.  I had the whole row to myself.

And then…

A very large shadow loomed and revealed a handsome, strapping thirty-something man.  He looked like he played a lot of rugby.

“May I take this seat?” he asked politely, indicating the aisle.

“Of course.  And maybe you’ll block someone else from taking the middle one,” I instantly strategized.

He laughed.  “I know I’m kind of big,” he noted.  “But the last time I flew, I had to sit next to a guy twice my size. He didn’t fit in the seat. It was terrible.  I couldn’t move an inch.”

“I don’t think you’ll have that same problem on this flight,” I said as I reached down and pulled out the Friday Times crossword puzzle.  I had my in-flight entertainment, and now I was all set for a fast, quiet ride.

But my seat mate had other ideas.

I Swear On My Kids’ Lives Sidebar:  I do NOT go out of my way to make conversation with people on planes.  I don’t want to bother anyone. They might want to work, or read, or relax, or just not deal with a chatty seat mate.  I had my puzzle and my protocol.

But Mr. Aisle Seat had other plans.  Even though I could see he had a book, he struck up a conversation.

I was more than happy to hold up my end.

He was thoughtful, funny, very congenial- the proud father of a five year daughter named Natalie and four month old twin boys. And before you start thinking “Cougar Alert!,” his wife – whom he clearly adored- was named Jess.

He lived in the Boston area and been in Chicago on business.  And over the course of the flight, we talked about everything from child-rearing, to moving to a new community, to having twins snowbound by the awful Boston weather, to the latest mocha chocolate chip cake recipe (Jess is an avid baker) that I had found in the NYT.

I told him that I was going to visit my daughter Natasha (a nickname for “Natalie,” btw) and Sam- my seven month old grandson.

This led to a new conversation about baby swim class (we’re both for it) and how to ingrain good eating habits into your kids early.  (Again, we’re both for it.)

Time flew by as we flew.  And as we were getting ready to make our descent, he said to me,”How are you getting to where ever you’re going?”

“Sam has his first-ever swim class right now.  So Natasha asked me if I would mind waiting an hour and then taking the Framingham Airport shuttle.  By then, they’ll both be dry and she’ll pick me up and drive me to the hotel.”

(Honesty compels me to report that by this time, I very much wanted something from my colleague in the air.  I wanted him to show me which door to use in Logan Airport to wait for that shuttle.  I can get lost in my bathroom, and I’m so blind I can’t read faraway, overhead airport signs.  So a nudge in the right direction would be just what the (eye) doctor ordered.)

We were landing now.  This was my last chance to get the info I needed.

“I’ll tell you what.  Why wait the hour?  I’m going right by there. I’ll take you,” he smiled.

OMG.

“You will?  Are you sure?  You don’t have to do that.  That’s awesome. That’s unbelievable.  Okay. Let me text my daughter and tell her she doesn’t have to worry about picking me up. She can meet me at the hotel.”

I reached for my phone.  There was just one thing…

“What’s your name?”

“Eric Curtis.”  And he gave me his card.

I texted Natasha.  “Just landed.  Do not pick me up.  I got a ride to the hotel.  I’ll meet you there.”

I got a very quick text back:  “WHO IS HE??!! HOW DO YOU KNOW HIM???!!”

(How did she know it was a “him?” Hmm.)

“My daughter is a little concerned,” I told him.

“Take a picture of my license plate and text it to her with my name,” Eric laughed.

And off we strolled.  Eric had snagged a terrific parking space right across from Logan’s entrance (of paramount importance in that frigid clime) and then he reached down and carried my carry-on.

“Just like a limo,” he noted.

“Better.”

And it was.

He drove me to my hotel and Natasha pulled in right behind us.

Perfect.

Sometimes the universe throws you an unexpected bouquet.

Thanks, Eric.

And next time you’re in Chicago, the town’s on me.

By the way, did you just hear a bell?”