European Vacation: Helping A Perfect Stranger.
It was June and the second week of a two-week trip to Europe. I was a week away from starting my General Chemistry pre-requisite classes. As is my custom, I would make an effort to go somewhere on my time-off before it got busy. Without too much thought, I was on my way to Europe. I really like hanging out with the Europeans and being immersed in their various cultures and languages. It’s all about the people and the experiences you get to share with them when wandering around from city to city and country to country. The first week I spent in Germany visiting a couple a friends I met on Spring break in Mexico two months earlier. They saw to it that I experienced the best beer and dance places Dusseldorf had to offer and a few touristy ones for comparison. When the week was over, I headed to Spain.
“Thanks for the kiss,” Alicia said as I waved down a taxi for her. It was 2:30 a.m., and nightlife was well on its way. In the background, I could hear someone approaching. “Excuse me. Do you know of a cheap motel or hostel that is open still (translated from Spanish)?” the back-packer asked. For a moment, I assessed what he said and compared it with his appearance and overall condition (Rule #3: Nothing is what it appears to be.) and attempted to decide if he really needed help or was just trying to pull one over on me for some quick ‘pick-pocket’ cash. He looked pretty much like I do when I get off a transatlantic flight—a little disoriented and ready to pass out. We were all standing in the middle of Sol Plaza—a center of Madrid’s nightlife. I knew he was S.O.L. as far as cheap accommodations went and less likely to find anyone else to loan him a hand that late and dark out.
Deciding if I was going to help this guy or just blow him off was originally not on the evenings agenda (…send Alicia to where she came from, brush my teeth and go to bed a.s.a.p.) Yeah. I was feeling selfish. “I could just send him into the crazy night scene with bad directions and then go to bed,” is what I thought. What I actually told him was I could help him get to a hostel, but it had to wait till morning. The immediate problem was what to do with him till then. I had an answer, but waited until we got back to my pension room to tell him (The Pension was a secure environment, and I was less subject to ambushing like in many of the secondary street ways.). Fortunately for Roberto, I had flown in earlier that day and found a room near the plaza.
Who’s Alicia? She’s an American I met at the Philadelphia International airport while waiting for my connecting flight to Amsterdam—my rendezvous spot with the Germans. She was standing next to me in a food line as I smiled at her and said, “Nice boots!” I saw a gal getting a pair polished down the hallway. She replied, “I noticed you noticing them as you walked by earlier.” I felt a little embarrassed but still invited her to sit and converse.
Surprisingly, people like having the little things about them noticed especially if they put any time or effort into them. It was then that she noted an overlap in our travel itineraries in Madrid. “We could meet for a drink,” she said, as it was time to board our separate planes. Like most close encounter of the airport kind, it’s often better to just relish the moment of pleasantries and proceed as planned leaving the entire moment behind. However, there are exceptions, and I decided to follow up on the affair after my week with the Germans. We met in Sol Plaza where my plans had started to change as this stranger approached us.
I let Roberto stay on the extra bed in my room. When I awoke the next day, he was gone. “Did I sleep that deeply as to not notice him leave?” is what I thought and partially said as I started to race through my stuff to check for missing items while attempting to put on my shoes. I was more concerned about my camera then cash or my passport because you always should have them strapped to your body somewhere… Not kinda! Not sometimes! Always! I walked out of the room, down the hall and into the reception area. The owner of the pension was there and mentioned I had a guest. “A guest?” I said in Spanish. Thinking it might be Alicia, I turned to look around, but not before the owner kindly pointed out that my zipper was down. From around the bend, emerged Roberto. “Hey. Coffee?” he said in Spanish. Attempting to act like I was calm and collected and not just having suffered a minor coronary, I agreed.
Later that morning while Roberto was finishing his affairs at the hostel check-in desk, I was giving directions to a few people on how to get the nearest Internet café. Before long, I was back in Sol Plaza with a few of the packers sipping on a café con leche, sucking up the sun, relaxing and listening to the Europeans complain about American politics. I felt completely in my element and the rest of my trip was spent with an English-speaking crew of packers (A Brit. A Canadian. A few Aussies and a Dutch girl.) I had earned a few pointes with the crew, as Roberto was more than grateful I had given him a hand and told his tale on how we came to be acquainted to everyone. It paved the way for me to becoming really good friends with the Dutch and a few other key players from the European front. I cashed in on the invitation to visit the Netherlands when my summer classes were over. It would be my last trip out of the country (but certainly not my last invite to visit people), and it lead to my semi-arrest at the Amsterdam airport as I arrived. There it is.
I still believe in paradise. But now, at least I know it not some place you can look for. Cause it’s not where you go. It’s how you feel for a moment in your life. And if you find that moment, it last forever.
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