Sometimes we observe things or are a witness to events that make a difference in our lives. Such events can shape our thinking, how we view the world, even how we look at strangers. What a shame it is if we don’t share them, because when we do, we can add it to the content of our lives and include them in our own story. Such a series of random events happened to me in the Summer of 2013, and early one morning, I took the time to write them down. Don’t you have something like this that you would like to share with your family? Write down your observations before you forget them! Here is what I observed on my way home from Orlando:
You can’t find the Principality of Serendip on any map, ancient or modern.
No, as author Horace Walpole penned it in 1754 in “The Three Princes of Serendip,” this magical land can only be found by chance, without effort, while seeking something else. In the fairy tale, Walpole’s three princes were always “making discoveries by accident and by sagacity of things they were not in quest of.”
Hence the term, “serendipity.”
So, it was with me while flying standby last summer.
There I was, the last person at Gate B31at the Orlando airport, crossing my fingers that a seat would be located before the door to the Boeing 737 was shut and locked. Apparently, the ‘Wambaughs”–whoever they were–had slept in and were in danger of missing the plane, giving me hope that a standby seat would open up for me at the last moment (my wife was already onboard).
“Get stuck in traffic, have a flat tire, stop for breakfast–just miss the plane,” was my unuttered prayer. Then, the boarding agent saw them–two boys–running with a set of grandparents behind them towards the gate.
That’s when I remembered that I am a grandpa, too.
In front of the gangway with the boarding agent watching impatiently, a set of grandparents couldn’t let their grandsons go. First, grandpa took a picture with the boys and grandma; then the old folks switched places. Then there was the hugging; the grandparents just couldn’t let the boys depart until prodded by a kindly agent. I watched as the adults waved and brushed tears from their faces as the boys, one about 10, the other a couple of years younger, disappeared. The grandparents then moved over to the window where they watched the plane separate from the gangway and roll off onto the tarmac. Finally, the grandparents, a nicely dressed couple about my age, turned and left with tears streaming down their faces.
I couldn’t resist saying to the grandfather as he passed by: “You don’t like those boys, do you?”
“Can’t stand them!” he said with a slight smile; then he took his wife by the hand and they slowly walked away.
For me, it was worth missing the plane.
Serendipity!
I couldn’t get a seat on the next plane home, either. Nor the one after that.
Then, a ticket agent suggested I take a round-about route to JFK in New York; he said I could make a connection there and catch a plane home later that evening. Sounded good!
But, by the time I arrived in NYC (delayed flight, bad ground service at JFK–typical for that mismanaged airport), I had to sprint to the gate and take a shuttle to the other terminal; upon arrival at the gate, a surly ticket agent (hey, it’s New York!) shut the doors, claiming the seats were filled (I knew better).
I had four hours to kill until my next possible connection.
I finished an old tattered pocketbook by Tony Hillerman (at least the second time I read it) and leaned back in a chair on the end of the aisle hoping I could sleep a little and not be trampled. But, it was not to be. Two young families deposited themselves and their carry-ons on my row, and the four children began a game of dodgeball in front of me; sleep was no longer an option.
They were all chattering in some Nordic tongue; the kids were fair and blond, the descendants of Vikings. Having traveled in Norway some years ago, I recognized the language and asked the lovely young mother sitting next to me if they were, in fact, Norwegians.
They were. And like most hardy folk from on top of the world, the young mother spoke English.
For next 45 minutes, we shared stories about who we were, where we lived and searched for commonality. I explained that my son Joel and I visited Norway some 20 years ago, spent time in Oslo, took a tour over the mountains, first by bus, then train and finally boat until we were picked up by a bus again and arrived in Bergen, apparently the rainiest place on earth (the two days we spent there were unusually warm and sunny). She explained that little jaunt is called “The Snapshot of Norway” tour. I highly recommend it (unless the hairpin bus tour on the mountain edge would send you into a fit of vertigo).
She showed me snapshots from her iPhone: a winter scene of a Norwegian farmhouse buried in snow, a herd of goats and mountain hiking scenes. She, her husband and their two Viking children live on a farm near the port city of Stavanger, raise and eat goats and whatever else they can grow in northern Norway’s short growing season. Her husband is an engineer on an oil platform in the North Sea. And, they were on their way to Disney World, a long way from the Arctic Circle!
A couple of hours later I was finally on an airplane, dodging carry-ons and kids to my seat at 41C. After picking my way through the passengers, I discovered there was a small African girl about 4 years old in my designated seat. She was sitting with an older sister and brother with her mother across the aisle encouraging them to get ready to take off. After switching seats with someone in the seat behind, we were all settled in for our 4-hour and 25-minute flight.
Hours later, as the passengers prepared for landing, I watched as the mother of these three children fixed their hair, spit-washed their faces and straightened their clothes as if preparing them for a family portrait. They were unusually well dressed for air travel; they were wearing their Sunday best. As we stood to depart, I commented to the mother, also dressed to the nines, that she had “good kids.” (They were very well behaved for such a long flight).
She smiled and replied in a thick African accent, “yes, very good children, very good!”
I hurried out of the plane. I rushed through the airport to be at the passenger pick-up when my daughter arrived to take me home, and as I stepped off the escalator near the baggage carousels, I heard a shout of alarm. I turned to see what the matter was.
A young African father was standing at the bottom of the escalator with a digital camera, taking pictures of each child as they came down the length of the stairs one at a time. The mother was at the top with a queue of other passengers behind her, who were allowing her to let them down one at a time. As each child reached the bottom, each one was embraced by their father who was unable to contain his emotions and cried for joy as he hugged each one. Hundreds of people turned to watch the tearful reunion.
I witnessed it, too, and finally turned to be reunited with my family.
As we drove home, I realized I had been up and traveling for nearly 22 hours, flying stand-by. And, I was grateful for those delays, a chance to talk to complete strangers, watch them with the ones they loved and remember that the serendipitous nature of travel isn’t the places we visit or the things we see, but rather the people we meet along the way.
That’s the best part of traveling to new strange places and meeting new people, to be reminded that most people’s hopes, dreams and aspirations are the same as yours, regardless of where they come from, what language they speak or the color of their skin.
That’s what the Three Princes of Serendip discovered on their journey, and what I learned on mine. That’s the real definition of serendipity.