...in Chile My husband and I met Chris 2 weeks ago when we were standing on a busy street corner in Santiago, trying not to look lost. Chris introduced himself and said he recognized our "lost signals". (Of course when he and his wife first came to Santiago 30 years ago I don't think they were studying a map on the cell phone.) Chris gave us directions and we continued chatting for many minutes. He was curious to hear what brought us to Chile and we were interested to hear how he and his wife ended up in an apartment around the corner. We Met Again Two days later, Don and I met Chris and his wife at a café in the lively Plaza de Armas. Chris and Jennifer have been coming to this café for years and they were eager to point out all the characters they have grown to love. The street cleaner came over to chat at least 3 times. A young boy came to our table selling plastic wallets. They called him by name and remembered when he was much smaller. They were unable to spot the usual prostitute who works the area, but there were plenty of other regulars to point out and gossip about. Many Friends If they could have talked him into it, our waiter would have joined us for a drink. Chris and Jennifer know no strangers and their warmth goes beyond the café. They are god parents to a young boy who is being raised by a single mother who works as a maid. Excitement in the Square When a protest march suddenly filled the festive plaza, we were lucky to have Chris and Jennifer there to assure us this would be peaceful. We watched the Mapuche Indians march by, pounding drums and chanting against the building of a dam that threatens their land. Ninja Turtles The Special Forces looked intimidating in their helmets and padding and bullet proof shields, but Chris eased the worry by reminding us of their nicknames, Ninja Turtles. The street cleaner stopped by the table to assure us things were under control. That was good to hear, because a year ago Chris and Jennifer had been sitting at the same café when they were blasted with water hoses during a protest march. Meeting Strangers through Strangers After visiting for a couple hours, Don and I were ready to head back on the subway. Our new friends said they would show us a short cut to the station. We headed down a walkway that we never would have chosen ourselves. The area echoed with a few foot steps and murmuring voices. It felt late and eerie to me, but Jennifer waved and spoke to a cluster of older men. "The Club" she called them. "They often gather in this walkway and act as if they have important business." A Happy Group! Next thing I knew, Jennifer and I were chatting with this lively group of gentlemen. The one with the hat was proud to speak a few words of English to me. The man with the bird on his shoulder explained, in Spanish, "This bird just landed on my shoulder one day. And he never left." After a little chatter we said good bye and joined Don and Chris up ahead, who had just found our subway station closed. Chris flagged down a taxi and we said good-bye after exchanging cards. I wouldn't be surprised if we meet up with them again someday. Thanks Chris and Jennifer. You reminded us that you don't have to be on a trip to open yourself up to new people and experiences. You live in Santiago but you seem to treat each day like curious travelers, wondering who you will meet and what will come your way. It's also nice to know you don't have to be 20 years old to have that "backpacker in Europe" mentality!
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1984 in Mexico Pinky was our tour guide. One misty, October morning, my husband and I boarded a ferry from Cozumel to Playa del Carmen with Pinky. The boat was crowded with crates of chickens, Mexican families carrying suitcases and tourists like us...many yellow faced and clutching the railing with motion sickness. Pinky was probably in his 50's, wearing a red cap pulled tightly over his gray hair. There was something commanding about Pinky as he rattled off instructions in decent English. "I am Pinky. You are my family. You are all brothers and sisters. You are Pinky's family. We stay together. You listen and we have a wonderful time!" Don and I grinned. We like Pinky's style. Tulum On the bus ride to Tulum, Pinky lectured some more. "When we reach the ruins of Tulum there will be rocks to climb. If you fall, Pinky will have to take you to the hospital. The people will have no guide. The trip will be ruined for all. Please be careful as you walk. Thank you." When we reached the magical Mayan ruins I was stunned at the beauty. Rocks and ruins scattered with palms, the blue sea just beyond! Pinky pointed out this lovely spot and said it was the best place to snap a photo. Posing with the Ruins I'm surprised we had the nerve to ask Pinky to take our picture when his strict lecture probably didn't allow time for such nonsense. Maybe he was so amused by our short shorts that he couldn't resist! When he returned to his lecture about the Mayan number system he began to remind me of teachers I've had. I had a history teacher once who knew his material so well he could rattle off dates and historic figures while making a grocery list. But Pinky actually had a passion for the history he shared. In fact he had so much passion he grew exasperated when drilling our group about what we had just learned. "Do you understand?" He shook his head and firmly reminded our group, "People think the Mayan's were primitive, but oh they had such complicated minds!!" Posing With Pinky Before we left the ruins I had Don take a picture of me with Pinky. I knew I never wanted to forget this colorful guide. After Tulum we headed off for lunch in an old hotel filled with butterflies and then a swim in a heavenly lagoon...and then there was one last lecture. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. Your tour covers everything! Lunch, bus ride, tickets to the ruins, everything except one important thing. Your tip to the guide.. That is Pinky. Please do not forget. Give what you feel he deserves." Thanks, Pinky. Your impatience was slightly intimidating and the way you referred to yourself in third person could have made my eyes roll. You also didn't seem too thrilled about posing in my photo. But I liked you. You worked hard...seven days a week, you said! I think you also worked for many more years because your name pops up on the internet. I liked your name, too! Sure wish I'd asked how you got it! Update From April 2017 In April, Don and I had a chance to visit Tulum and Chichen Itza, again. Early one morning while waiting for the gates to open at Chichen Itza, I spoke with a few tour guides who remembered Pinky, well. Sadly he passed away a while ago, but they all agreed he was a very well respected man in their world. After talking with the guides and reading blog responses, I wish I could go back in time and take his tour. I enjoyed him then, but how much more I would appreciate him now! Rest in Peace, Pinky!
A Few Nice Folks on Trains. I learned to love trains when my family lived in Italy in 1969. But our family of 6 often had our own compartment, so there wasn't much mingling with strangers. Instead we often entertained ourselves with games like Botticelli and tic tac toe. Or We Read Books We always traveled with books. I was 11 and my 7 year old brother, David was a very good audience when I read to him from my Enid Blyton books! Carnevale Celebration! But one time our family joined some friends on a train for a day trip to the seaside town of Viareggio. The 6 kids were in one compartment and the adults in another. We were headed for a festive pre-lent celebration which meant some of us were in costume and armed with confetti and plastic bats for bopping strangers. (With good humor) The kid compartment was pretty wound up and giddy by the time a policeman opened the door. Luckily he just wanted a seat. His presence subdued us for a while, but before long he was sharing our candy and allowing us to ask him silly questions with the help of an Italian dictionary. I don't remember his answers, but I do remember some questions. "Are you happy?" and "Do you swim in the bathtub?" From Michigan to Missouri On another winter day 7 years later, my younger brother and I once again traveled by train... and met strangers. This time we departed from the lovely old station in Ann Arbor and headed home to St. Louis after the Christmas holiday. We boarded before dawn to find the train already jammed with holiday travelers. Every seat was taken and the aisles were crowded with luggage. David and I sat on our suitcases in the unheated space between train cars, until we realized there was a dining car with actual seats and tables! Not only was the snack bar area warm, but it was alive with the good spirits of travelers who all seemed to have upbeat attitudes about this ridiculous overcrowding. David and I were invited to squeeze into a booth with others and before long everyone was talking together. We sat beside some children playing "Battleship" and a sweet older woman who was eating her sack lunch. The children let us play their game when they were finished and the dear woman insisted we let her give us each a dollar. She had overheard us worrying over having only $10.00, since it looked like weather was going to cause a huge delay in Chicago. Dave and I ended up sharing a tangerine and candy bars with a painter from California and we discussed alligators, pollution and poodles with a man from Iowa. By the time we reached Chicago I remember feeling bonded to these travelers. I hated saying good bye. Chicago to St. Louis The storms didn't end up delaying our departure from Chicago. Dave and I boarded Amtrak and actually found two seats together. However there was no heat in our car and the temperature was in the teens. But at least we had seats for the last half of our 12 hour journey. Thank you, Train Travelers! It was a great experience sharing food, games and conversation with all of you. If I ever get stuck on a boat, train or plane with some kind of horrible problem like the Carnival Cruise Ship that made news recently...I hope I'm surrounded by strangers like all of you! This is not the scary house where the woman lived. This is actually a dorm in St. Louis, Missouri. In the summer of 1977 I had a summer job as a recreational worker with teens living at Epworth Home for Girls. These young women were a difficult bunch and my job was to motivate and challenge them with engaging activities, projects and jobs. I was feeling pretty proud of myself one day when I was able to talk 4 of them into doing a house cleaning job. A worried husband had called Epworth looking for someone to help his sick wife clean house. The girls decided they were up for it, if they could use the earned money to go horseback riding. Scary House This photo looks like the kind of house I remember. There was nothing scary about the outside as we approached it. The girls were relieved to know I had planned to stay with them for the afternoon of team cleaning. I prepped myself, knowing I would need to offer lots of encouragement, prodding, and reminding about their horseback riding goal... if they got lazy. A Hoarding Issue The fact that no one was coming to the door when we rang, made us begin to feel uneasy. Something didn't feel right, but we certainly didn't expect anything as bad as what greeted us when Mrs. Van Bray finally opened the door! There were no TV shows about hoarding in the 1970's to prepare us. Today if you Google hoarding, you'll get one hundred photos like the one above. If I had owned a cell phone back then I could have had my own collection of photos like this. Then again, I probably would have called our driver to come back and get us. But we were stuck. Our driver was not returning for 3 hours. What We Saw It wasn't easy following Mrs. V into the house because you couldn't even see the floor. The shades were pulled, so the dim living room appeared to be inhabited by eerie, looming creatures. It was really just the fact that every piece of furniture was heaped with trash and clutter. The smell was overwhelming in the small stuffy rooms. The thought of attempting to take on this horrifying chore would have terrified a professional cleaning crew and here I was with a group of already emotionally fragile girls. They looked at me with panic in their eyes and I tried to reassure them. "Just a few hours. We'll see what we can do." Where to Begin? I tried to remind the girls that Mrs. V was sick. She'd had leukemia for a year. Her eyes looked glassy and she winced as she moved her large body in slow motion. She told me to bring her rocking chair into the kitchen so she could supervise. And put it where? I asked Mrs. V if she had any trash bags, but she fretted over what I might be thinking of throwing away. I obviously didn't understand the mental illness she also suffered from. The only things she allowed us to pitch were some moldy half eaten Big Macs, but not the Styrofoam boxes holding them. We spent 2 hours climbing over and squeezing around heaps, while we "organized" and restacked and sorted through Mrs. V's clothing, cans, TV Guides, jar lids, dishes, clothespins, knickknacks and trash. It was very clear that we would make no noticeable dent in 3 hours. Getting Worse Mrs. V began to grow agitated, telling the girls to work faster. "This house needs to be clean by the time my husband gets home!" I gently explained that we couldn't possibly finish, but we would do what we could. I continued encouraging the girls with whispers and gestures until Mrs. V began to cry. I was ready to give up. The girls and I were queasy from being in this filthy mess and we seemed to be causing Mrs. V more frustration than relief. I asked to use the phone and called my supervisor at Epworth. I gently explained the situation and asked for her to speak with Mrs. V. Mrs. V ranted for a minute before slamming the phone down. Even though we had "worked" in our bewildered state until we were picked up, Mrs. V refused to pay us anything. By the time we dragged our weary, sweaty, filthy bodies into the school station wagon a new energy had washed over my group. As the car AC blasted, 4 furious voices, hollered out the hellish details of our afternoon. Before long the car was filled with squeals and laughter. Thanks Mrs. V You taught my girls (and me) a valuable lesson that summer. When we first got in the car we were enraged that you didn't appreciate how we had tried to help at all. But by the time we finished ranting and laughing, we each had a word or 2 to share about your sad state. It was painful to imagine living a life like that. We felt totally trapped in that world for 3 hours, but that was the life that you lived every day. Your sad situation bonded us in a most unusual way. We needed no Outward Bound experience to challenge us to work like a team. Your house was our mounatin and I think we ended up feeling stronger about ourselves because we faced that challenge. I think I would have handled things differently now. I'm sad to say, we probably wouldn't have even gone in your home. It would have been clear you needed a different kind of help, than ours. But I would have sent you some flowers. I wish you could have known that we really did care about you. Menil Collection in Houston I must have learned as a child to fear museum guards. They always seemed so suspicious. They tapped shoulders and glared and reprimanded when you even thought about standing too close to a piece of art. However my opinion of museum guards changed last year when I had a relaxed visit to the lovely Menil Museum. An Exhibit of Nigerian Statues I was impressed by the expressions and poses I saw in a collection of Nigerian statues. I found myself making the same expressions as I studied the poses, through the glass. Who were the people, who inspired these statues? I realized a guard was watching and cringed that I could have looked like I was making fun. But he chuckled and we ended up chatting. It turns out he was in fact from Nigeria and we ended up having a wonderful food conversation, because I had recently visited a Nigerian restaurant. My Favorite Guard But my favorite guard at the Menil was working in a separate building. There were no other visitors in the quiet space, but my friend and I could hear the somewhat shy guard talking softly. He was talking to his friend just outside the door...a squirrel! Guillermo Guillermo said he fed the squirrel every day. He dropped a peanut outside the door and watched the little guy race over to fetch his treat before a greedy bird could steal it! Thanks, Guillermo! You reminded me that museum guards can be kind human beings! I think that little squirrel thanks you, too! Curious Encounter in 1977 Kenny was 52 years old when we met in 1977. I was exploring an area in the Missouri Ozarks with some college classmates when we came upon what appeared to be a dump in the middle of the woods. I can't recall when we first laid eyes on this jovial hermit, but I still have some notes and photos that bring back this interesting character. Kenny's Yard Luckily Kenny wasn't bothered that we'd come upon his secret world. He shared a toothless grin and offered to show us his home. First he took us to his main home, a converted school bus. We walked past an old round washing machine and onto a sagging roofless porch and climbed the stairs into his home. Inside We stepped inside a cluttered, filthy space with a sagging mattress in the corner and kitchen counters built beside the windows. It was hard to imagine children sitting in this bus once. Kenny opened up a tiny refrigerator (I don't recall how this bus was powered) and offered us some of his brew that filled a large, chipped crock. Kenny used a mug to scoop out a sample of the beverage made from brown sugar, yeast and rice. I declined politely. I have a feeling this brew was the key to Kenny's good spirits. The Saddest Part Kenny didn't act like someone who wanted to be pitied. In his somewhat tipsy state, he seemed pretty proud to be tour guide. When I asked how long he'd lived there, he pointed to a tree through the window. "I ate a pear once and now there's a tree." I'm not sure I believed that, but I did believe that at one point Kenny had made this bus his "home". There were signs of attempts long ago to decorate. There were curtains on a back window and photos tucked above the side windows. There was one photo of a young Kenny with what I presume was a wife and children. I was haunted by that photo for a very long time. He had been a surprisingly good looking man, with a family. Kenny's Trailer Next door to the bus was a trailer. I don't remember if we even went inside, but I remember we said good-bye at the door. Promise We promised Kenny we would come back and visit. Winter We did return the next winter when there was snow on the ground. Kenny didn't offer us any brew and I remember he seemed sober. Maybe it was just the fact that he had on more clothes, but I like to think he was healthier. Thanks, Kenny. You didn't run us off with a shot gun or hide inside to keep us wondering. You shared a little of yourself and we respected you for that. Maybe you really were content living that life, but I selfishly hope your life got a little better. Flying with Kids A recent stranger write up, reminded me about enjoying my kids at the airport. That reminded me of another memory involving my kids and an airplane. I have always enj0yed my kids, even on trips. But when my husband offered to sit with our 2 young kids on a flight, I grabbed the isolated seat and pulled out a book. Ahh! 2 hours of reading ahead! The Cowboy Sitting beside me was a long legged man in cowboy boots. He fiddled with the cowboy hat in his lap. I bumped him as I got settled, he smiled when I apologized. I sensed this man was a talker, but I so wanted to read. I hurried to get started on my book. I must have reread the same paragraph 4 times because I was so distracted by his sniffling. Why did I have to be seated by someone with a cold? Why doesn't he have a Kleenex? Is he expecting me to offer him one? I shrunk tinier in my seat as he fidgeted and fumbled. Was he wiping his nose on his sleeve? Then I reached for my purse and offered him a tissue. He made full eye contact as he thanked me and I could suddenly see his eyes were watery. "I'm sorry." The cowboy apologized. "I'm sort of in a state. I'm heading to my grandmother's funeral." The moment he uttered those words, the image I had of this big, tough guy just melted. My book stayed closed on my lap for the rest of the flight, while my new friend told me stories about his grandmother. I don't remember the details, I just remember how touched I was to witness this change in character. He hadn't changed, but my view of him had. Thanks, Cowboy Friend. You taught me a lesson about first impressions. I saw your boots and hat and expected you to be an armrest hog at the very least. You became a person I never expected. You were kind and thoughtful and best of all you didn't try to hide your vulnerability. When my grandmother died a few years later, I thought of you. You must have been a wonderful grandson! St. Louis Airport I remember the airport being just this empty when I took my kids late at night to pick up their dad. He had been away on business for nearly 2 weeks and it was hard to tell who was the most excited for him to come home. At the Gate It was about a decade before 9-11, so we were free to walk to the gate to wait for the flight's arrival. Best of all, Southwest Airlines had recently installed some plastic climbing toys! At ages 2 and 4, Scott and Heidi were giddy to see the lonely equipment waiting just for them. They clomped all over the slide and climber for a while, then began giggling as they used me as a climber. Their eager energy shook the whole row of seats and I knew their high spirits could easily crumble if that plane didn't hurry up. I calmed them for a while with a little "I Spy" and a few silly songs...then some face making contests and guessing games about what Daddy would be wearing. Where was that plane? No Longer Alone The kids began to yawn and curl up next to me when I noticed the first person we had seen since we arrived at the gate. She was a young woman, smiling as she approached. "Could I ask you a question?" She asked. Then she turned and pointed to a somewhat embarrassed looking young man across the way. "We've been watching you and the kids and I'm thinking you are their mother. But my boyfriend says that's impossible." I laughed and told her they were my kids. She grinned and shook her head. "I was right! He said you couldn't be the mom because you were having too much fun." Thanks Curious Girl! You have no idea how often I've recalled that brief encounter. You could have just wondered and never spoken. But sharing the funny thoughts you and your boyfriend discussed, gave me a terrific boost. I hadn't noticed you watching us. I'm glad your observations determined what I've always known, that I enjoy my kids! A Mom and Her Kids My memory is from about 1976, sitting at the counter of a St. Louis Dunkin' Donut shop. My brother and I, both teens at the time, were treating our mom to a donut stop. It was Mom's birthday and David and I were finding clever ways to celebrate without spending too much money. At home we had performed a silly Baroque version of Happy Birthday and presented her with a handful of oddball gifts. And then we headed off on a day of whimsical exploration, which was Mom's favorite kind of celebration. Observing As we sat chatting over coffee, I became a little distracted by a mother and 2 kids at the other end of the counter. They seemed familiar. The brother and sister were swiveling back and forth on the bar stools, joking. The mother seemed genuinely amused by her kids and joined in with a few of her own jokes. At a glance this happy little trio reminded me of younger version of us. But closer observation made it clear they were very different. A Sad Story The mother wore a shabby coat over rumpled clothes. The children's clothes were faded and well worn. When the mother turned on her stool I could see she had bruises around her eyes and mouth. I wondered. A truck driver entered and sat at the counter. He asked the woman what happened to her. I quietly sipped my coffee, straining to hear her reply. She was very matter of fact as she described how she had been beaten and held 9 hours by a man outside a hamburger joint. The mom seemed disconnected from the story she was telling until she neared the end. Then her face suddenly matched her words. "When he stopped beating me, I was in shock. I didn't really know I was hurt, until I felt the blood..." Skillful Steering There was hardly a pause before one of the kids jumped in, bringing the conversation back to humor. "Hey Mom! Look at you now. Your bruises are starting to match the color of your coat!" And they all laughed awkwardly. Thank you, Dear Mom in the Donut Shop. Your story jolted me. It was hard to believe I was sitting near a mother, who had recently been assaulted. As I sat at the end of the counter with my mother and brother, I was reminded of some difficulties we had dealt with during the year and how we had often coped with humor. You and my mother may have been worlds apart, but I'm pretty sure you had a few things in common. Resilience, good humor and somewhat protective kids. Art Hill - St. Louis, 1977 We had some pretty white winters during my college years in St. Louis. And Art Hill was the place to go to make use! You could often spot a couple of lunch tray and garbage bag riders. And now and then you you might see 2 sisters, squealing down the hill on one pair of cross country skis! (my only photo) A Quiet Afternoon I met my little friend one afternoon when I was alone skiing. The hill was empty that day so I took advantage to practice some telemark turns...happy to have no audience. I had made my way to the bottom of the hill, when I heard a whimpering from the lagoon. Ice I turned to see the face and arms of a young boy, surrounded by a thin layer of broken ice. The boy clutched the cement edge of the lagoon, his eyes were locked on mine as I left my skis and rushed towards him. I dropped to my knees and the boy reached around my neck. I struggled to lift him, but his water logged snow suit fought to stay under water. I finally won and felt the suction release. I held the dripping, crying child and looked for a parent. At the very top of the hill, I could see 2 unaware figures, gesturing as if in conversation. I began the journey up, stumbling and huffing and puffing. The little boy clung to me, sobbing and shivering the whole way up. By the time I reached the top, the mother spotted us and had began to yell. She was furious with her child who had stupidly aimed his saucer towards the water. And where was his other boot?! In the lagoon?! She sputtered and fumed and never said thank you. I headed back down to get my skis and poles and headed for my car...shaken. Thank you, Little Boy. Your close call, made me a more cautious parent in later years. And your mother taught me some lessons, too. I wish I could go back and redo that "rescue". I would have learned your name and I wouldn't have handed you over to your mother until she proved that her anger was just a reaction...of panic and guilt. Sadly I'm pretty certain that you mom was a lot worse than that. I wish I had just taken you home with me! |
FIFTY-FIVE
STRANGERS To celebrate my birthday in April 2012, I decided to reflect on the past with a different kind of list. I've met a lot of people in my 55 years, but I'm going to stop and remind myself about the strangers I've met. These are people I met by accident, not through friends or work. For some reason, these strangers dropped into my life. Even though we may have only spent a few minutes together, these people have never been forgotten. Each week, I'll spotlight someone I met in the past, who in some small way, made me stop and think. MY GOAL: Remember 55 Strangers Archives
April 2016
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