It was a rare moment of blissful buzz and contentment. On a Friday evening at Logan International Airport, having spent three days seeing Boston, USA, I was heading to Michigan for a friend’s wedding. Checked-in, I grabbed a Dunkin’ Donut and sat amongst the quiet throng at the gate where much that I loved came together in one moment — travel, anticipation of seeing friends, people-watching, donuts. And I had no worry — an oddity in itself for me. I can vividly recall savouring it all. Strange as it is, one of my favourite places is Logan International Airport, simply for the provision of this moment.
The little girl at carousel number 10
Is there a more life-sapping duty than waiting at the baggage carousal at the end of a flight? After spending an hour, five hours or (gulp) 12 hours in the pressurised cabin of a busy plane, with little room for manoeuvre and slim enjoyment by way of food, the last thing anyone wants is to collectively gather around a tediously slow conveyer built waiting for luggage to arrive.
I was in this situation a couple of weeks ago. I’d just arrived in Edinburgh from Bristol and it was approaching 11pm. In front of me was someone who clearly hadn’t read the script for these situations. She was excited and energetic, seemingly enjoying the delights of carousel number 10.
She was around 5 years old.
As one large yellow and grey rucksack emerged, the little girl jumped on it, dragged it off the carousel and just about carried it to her parents, almost crashing into me in the process. But there was a problem. “No darling!” a lady with a Scottish accent hurriedly said as she rushed towards her daughter. “That’s not our bag — that’s someone else’s!”
Those of us who had front-row seats to this adorable little drama raised weary but hearty smiles as the bag was returned to carousel. It was a heartwarming and welcome interlude from the draining wait for luggage.
It’s a story that still lingers in my head. Waiting is a mainstay of life. Beyond the nuisance of waiting for luggage, there is the waiting for a spouse, a new job, a house, or whatever. The desires that fuel our waiting can be so much that we jump on the first hint at an answer to our longing, convinced it is our time. But this isn’t always the case. A closer look may reveal that what we hoped was the answer is not quite right for us. Not this time.
This happened some years ago. A job came up that looked perfect. I applied but on hitting send an overwhelming sense of uncertainty came over me. I prayed it away, convinced the feeling was nerves and certainly not of God. But it didn’t work, the unease persisted, and so I withdrew the application and peace returned. It may sound super-spiritual (I wish that was the case because that’s easy to ignore!) but it was the right decision, something I believe has been confirmed in the years since.
The little girl from carousel number 10 is a personal reminder to me to not jump on the first hint of my desires being fulfilled. It pays to have a little look at the approaching luggage before wheeling it away to see if our name is written on it. And if it isn’t our luggage, hopefully what’s rightfully ours won’t be too far behind…
Happy in Prague
It’s Tuesday afternoon on a hot June day in Prague. I’ve spent the last four hours sampling the streets and sounds of the fabled city and I am feeling my legs and, crucially, my stomach. I’ve come to the popular expat hangout Globe Bookstore and Café. It’s not as grand as I expect (the Globe reference has deceived me) but I’m not disheartened. I like the rugged, vintage feel, with creaking floorboards and homemade posters advertising local events on noticeboards and the backs of bookshelves.
A dimly lit hallway leads from the bookstore to the café. I settle into a seat outside in the shaded courtyard. The air is warm but not stifling. Occasionally a gentle breeze passes through and brushes welcomely against my clammy skin. An indie acoustic playlist filters through the windows, accompanied by the pleasant clattering of crockery. As I soak in the calm surroundings it then dawns on me: this is my happy place. It’s beautifully quiet, I am about to enjoy a pub meal whilst reading an unputdownable holiday book, John Mayer is on the playlist, and I am in Prague (a city long on my to-visit list) in just the most delightful bookstore-cum-café.
I place an order and return to my book.
A few minutes pass when the casually-dressed waiter brings out an order for another table. An alluring aroma follows him which stops me in my reading — the gorgeous whiff of freshly fried chips. My order of club sandwich and chips feels validated and cannot come soon enough. But first, the beer. I’ve ordered a locally brewed IPA which arrives in a dimpled pint glass. It’s refreshingly cold with a sweet, caramel aftertaste that lingers long on the palate. The meal soon follows and is equally delectable. I could stay here for the rest of the day.
Whilst eating I casually drift between reading and people-watching. There are three of us outside. An Asian girl sits opposite reading. Only a few pages of her book look left to read. I always feel that if I do nothing in a day but complete a book, the day’s a resounding success. I feel excitement for the girl that she may leave this place having completed her book. Go, girl! To my left is a Czech man who spends most of the time speaking on the phone. At one point I notice his head arched back, eyes closed and mouth pouting. Clearly the latest phone conversation is boring him stiff. To my horror his eyes open and he clocks me. He shakes out of his posture and I return to the last of my thick-cut chips. Not awkward at all…
I arrived here leg weary and hungry, and a little irritable. But I am leaving with renewed strength not just in my legs and stomach, but also my heart. Everything about this place, and this moment, has nourished my soul.
The Unwritten and Untold
The one story I seem to tell people the most from a trip I made to America in 2012 is a small episode at a sandwich shop I visited in Chicago. It was lunchtime and the queue was long. I thought I had plenty of time to get my head around the menu and work out what to have. I was so wrong. At the front of the queue, around 30 or so feet in front of me, was a cashier standing on a counter, loudly asking for people’s orders. I quickly realised she would soon be calling out to me. I panicked. This is not normal for me! I don’t want to shout my order, I have NO idea what I want and I am very shy – and British! I quietly hoped she would skip by me. She didn’t, obviously, and so I pretended I didn’t hear her. It didn’t work – it just annoyed her. I turned to her and timidly asked for a bit more time. She obliged, though this was no ‘take your time’ gesture; I knew she would return to me pronto. So I quickly picked a sandwich. I don’t think it was the best on offer, but time was short; careful deliberation was a no-go. I made my order and shared a relieving smile with the lady behind me who seem to sympathise with my predicament.
I always enjoy telling this story. And I have shared it with many people. On the same day I visited the sandwich shop I also went up Willis Tower and took a million photos of ‘The Bean’. I also sampled some AMAZING pizza. But I rarely talk about that. I instead tell people about what happened when buying a sandwich. On reflection, I wonder if this fits a broader pattern. Many of the stories I relish telling and hearing the most are often not the big and spectacular, where something particularly significant happens. Instead they are those small and seemingly insignificant happenings – a good few of which, at the time, can be on the annoying and awkward side. But these are stories, I think, which we all find especially easy to identify with and perhaps offer a more unique insight into us – our perspective, character, personality, feelings. And because of this, like the nudging of the first domino, it are these quirky stories that are oftentimes the prompt for others to follow suit and share their own similar tales.
There are a few other stories I frequently find myself sharing with others. There was the horribly awkward, blushingly-red incident as a waiter, where I dropped a piece of chicken in front of a table of wedding guests. It was painful. Still, the wedding guests had a good laugh. There was the routine train ride where I happened to be sitting next to another Christian. I realised this from a book he was reading. Too scared to begin a conversation with him, I took out a clearly Christian CD and conveniently placed it in his eyesight. It worked a treat. We chatted and, as my stop neared, he kindly prayed for me. There were the tourists in Cambridge who sheepishly approached me whilst I was waiting for a friend, convinced I was Prince Harry. They took some convincing to believe otherwise. And there was the plane journey in which very-tired-me sat next to very-talkative-stranger. After talking for a bit (pre-take-off) I put my headphones into my ear, assuming the chat was over. But that didn’t stop her – she was still in full-flow. I couldn’t help but smile.
Oddly, it are these stories that have got me excited as the new year gathers momentum. Our days are largely more ordinary than extraordinary. But many of the stories we tell our friends at the pub or over the family dinner table or whilst driving with friends – both now and the years to come – are the ones written in the ordinary. They are not momentous, life-changing or particularly revelatory. They may only last the briefest of minutes and, at the time, be painfully awkward. But in them we find a treasure that makes them worth sharing with others – time and time again. This year and beyond, God-willing, are many more pocket-sized moments that have yet to be written and so waiting to be told – one, two, twenty times. I have no idea what they will look like, but knowing that they could happen at anytime puts an added sparkle into each day.
After they have happened, I can’t wait to share them.
And I can’t wait to hear yours, too.