Most of my travels these days are usually no more exotic than visiting family on Pea Ridge Road, outside of Eatonton. I grew up on a dairy farm, neighbored on all sides by other dairy farms, with the inescapable scent of manure wafting through the air. This is a smell my granddaddy described as money. My dating life suffered.
Travel as a kid meant occasional trips to town, adventures to Milledgeville, and a couple of times a year, a visit to the Macon mall to shop for school clothes. I wore Toughskin blue jeans, bought from Sears & Roebuck, with the humiliating size “husky.” We only visited Atlanta if there was absolutely no other option to procure what was needed, such as a lung transplant or attend a Mac Davis concert. My daddy is still a bit embarrassed that I now live in metro Atlanta. Who doesn’t have one or two family shames?
As an adult, I love the adventure of traveling to another ZIP code or hemisphere. My first plane ride was to the Philippine Islands, where I turned 21 and slept in a side room of a church in a fishing village called Dadiangas. There I ate balut (look it up) and pineapple so sweet it made my teeth hurt.
For the last couple of weeks this summer, I was traveling a bit more than usual, hopping on one plane after another, visiting grandchildren and attending back-to-back conferences — all in different cities. Outside of some pretty good Texas brisket, most of my meals consisted of mixed nuts bought at one of the airports, or banquet-hall chicken, cooked to unbearable doneness, accompanied by green beans that quit trying to be green.
Along with the sweet time with my grandchildren, some of my most memorable encounters happened driving to and from the respective airports, utilizing the convenience of ride-sharing. I chatted with a driver from West Africa, which was probably a one-sided conversation because he spoke little English, but I was able to make him break out in a big toothy grin. Another driver was from Punjab, India, and he had a veritable shrine to Sikhism on his dashboard. He spoke glowingly of his home, how he missed his family, and that the temple in Punjab served more meals than any other temple in the world. One of my drivers was born and raised in Indianapolis, the mother of two young daughters, and had a steering wheel cover that looked a bit like the toilet bowl cover at my grandma’s house. I had another driver, this one from Algeria, who animatedly chatted the whole way, and more than once I needed to remind him to brake.
When I scheduled my ride to the airport from where I would fly home, I received a note from the ride-share company that my driver was deaf, followed by a thoughtful video of basic ways of communicating in sign language. About all I could master was hello and thank you. He was from Bangladesh, according to the flag hanging from his mirror. I wish I knew more sign language, so I could say welcome to America and thank you for helping me get home.
I suppose the most important task we can do for one another happens every day in taxi cabs, buses, trains, planes, and even on foot — getting each other home. Wherever you go this summer, I hope you have good people in your life who will help you get back home.
And remember — everyone you encounter wants pretty much the same thing, so be kind and be helpful.
